Two Cents Worth
by Aro
Summary: Chapter 8 up. Telepathic!Dean, woohoo. “You’re—it’s getting worse.” No worries, Sammy won't let it destory him.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Two Cents Worth

Notes: I'm not sure if I like this story yet, but we'll see. Furthermore, Eric Kripke is the creator of _Supernatural_, not me, and Two Cents Worth is also the title of an awesome Kansas song. A special thanks to Jessica (no, not that one!) for helping me edit a bit.

∞∞∞

"Your vision? Sucks."

"I'm terribly sorry, Dean--next time _you_ can have the vision."

"I should! At least with me we'd end up in, oh, I don't know, the Bahamas, or Las freakin' Vegas, _not_ some creepy ass basement of some creepy ass rundown building."

Ah, well, it was getting late, and our sleep-deprived boys were getting quite cranky.

"No, if you even _had_ visions, they'd only take you to where there's trouble."

"Dude, no, _my_ visions would totally _love_ me."

"Right, man, and the _Bahamas_? I'd _love_ to see you get on a plane again."

"Aw, shut yo' mouth."

And if there were any chance the demon they were looking for was eavesdropping, it would probably decapitate itself by now in utter gratitude of not having to hear the goddamn Homo sapiens bitch at each other anymore.

This was supposed to be a weekend of rest—and the second Sam announced that, he had jinxed them; not even halfway through dinner when he was suddenly painfully whacked in the head with… a vision. His fork had clattered onto the table and he grabbed awkwardly at his forehead through his bangs, his face scrunched up in agony. _Not again… _

Even now, hours later, he still wasn't sure what he saw. The vision was distorted, almost static-y. However, he had made out the form of someone, hunched over, like maybe they were wheezing or crying, and what he presumed was a demon, what with the clichéd glowing red eyes, angry scowl, mutilated skin, and abnormally long limbs.

Luckily, he had gotten a quick glimpse at the outside of the building—an old factory that probably shut down in the early 90s. Sam recalled passing it when they first rolled into town, but then he hadn't gotten any strange vibes. But, hey, there's the story, and now the Winchester brothers were wandering through the maze-esque basement, flashlights out, guns cocked.

Ten long minutes passed as they aimlessly pranced around, both bored and overwhelmingly exhausted. "Maybe it… maybe _I_ was wrong." Sam had hesitantly admitted, not believing his words for a second. His visions had never given him a reason to doubt them, and Dean knew that, which was why neither one put down their gun, or slowed down their pace.

"And to think we'd ever pass up this excitement for a weekend of "relaxation and peace."" Dean grumbled, lazily flicking his flashlight on and off, perhaps to gather attention. He twisted around the words Sam had earlier used in his pitch to convince his brother that they needed a weekend off from "the endless game." Sam noticed, and, of course, wasn't amused.

"There was someone in that vision, Dean. Someone is here and needs our help. We… we… stop doing that!" He reached forward, shoving Dean's shoulder. This had just tempted Dean to stare him straight in the eyes and continue turning his flashlight on and off, on and off…

"_You_ stop doing that." He pushed back Sam's shoulder in the same harmless manner, his fingers wrapped tightly around the flashlight, which was now on the 'on' position. The younger brother shot his elder an exasperated look, and Dean smirked, waggling his brows suggestively as he nonchalantly slipped his gun into his coat pocket.

Sam smiled humorlessly, looking a bit peeved. "You're such a—" His mind suddenly went blank. His flashlight slipped from his fingers and dropped onto the ground, still on. It was as if the quips that usually rolled off his tongue so easily suddenly got wedged between his teeth, and he blinked, confused, and looked down at the ground, an itchy pain located between his eyes.

"Sam, you all right?" Dean switched to concerned brother mode, and his eyes shifted around suspiciously, one hand grasping his little brother's shoulder. "A vision? Is that what it was, Sam?" His voice got deeper and gruffer as he went on with Sam not answering. Sam finally looked up, staring into Dean's narrowed eyes, his lips slightly parted.

"N—no, actually…" Those familiar glowing red eyes came into his line of vision behind Dean's shoulder, his bottom lip quivering slightly when he realized that it wasn't a vision. "Shit, man, look out!" He shoved Dean back, grabbing a fistful of the back of his clothing to twirl him around. The sudden motion caused him to lose some balance, and he stumbled back into Sam.

"Well, hello there handsome." The cool metal of his gun was back intertwined within his fingers, fitting there with such ease, like the gun and his hand were part of a two-piece puzzle. The pair of red orbs floated closer in the darkness. "I suppose it's not going to invite us over for some—"

"Enough Dean, _shoot_! Shoot first, and make wisecracks about it later, _all right_?" When the hell did Sam get a John tone of voice? Dean flinched at the thought, grasping the gun tighter, his finger wanting so badly to squeeze that trigger, baby, but—but he _couldn't_. He sputtered out four different curses at once, blinking rapidly, trying to fire his freaking gun. "Dean?"

"Give me a second!" The older male snapped venomously; his face faintly flushed. The eyes came closer, and closer, and closer, and his hand began to shake with such strain. He heard Sam rattle off his name a few more times, but ignored him, glowering at the demon, knowingly. "You Sonofa_bitch_."

An unusually soft voice violated Dean's mind. _Put down the gun, Dean. I've_---

Something changed. The room temperature, which had been reasonably comfortable, suddenly dropped and it became damn near cold. It was as if the wind had shifted directions. The red eyes flickered, replaced by void darkness, but the demon still lingered there, his deformed body still detectable in the shadows and shades of dark. The strong scent of sulfur invaded the air.

A piercing shriek caught Sam off guard, and his head whipped back like he'd been punched in the face. He grunted in pain, staggering back, his eyes tightly shut. A trickle of blood escaped a nostril, barely noticed when he opened his eyes to see the demon lunge at his brother, who had been standing in front of him like a shield. He quickly picked up his flashlight.

"_No_!" Oh, god, _no_. He watched in horror as Dean fell hard to the ground, immediately rolling onto his back. He shone the light at his brother—his _family_—and when he saw the claw marks that now painfully decorated Dean's chest area he felt enraged. He tore his hardened gaze away from Dean and up at the demon, which merely stood there, like it was waiting. _Waiting_.

But in the blink of an eye, cold fingers attacked his neck. What the hell was the obsession with his neck? He fought back, arms colliding, and he kicked at it, punched at it, feeling the gun still clutched in his hand, but it was like his hand had suddenly gone numb, and disobeyed any orders.

"You're really getting on my nerves!" Dean's voice seemed to have roared out of nowhere. Sam blinked, getting shoved to the ground, and tried to figure out which one of them Dean had been talking to, since it worked both ways, or so he figured. "Do _something_, Sam. Pretend it's a spoon, dammit!"

Breathlessly, Sam looked up, watching the silhouette of his injured brother fight with the demon. _A spoon_? Yeah, like Sam had any luck with the whole telekinesis deal since he had moved that cabinet. He had forgotten about that, and hoped Dean had as well, but no such luck.

Suddenly, that tingling in the back of his head faded away, and Sam wasted no time raising his hand in the air, and shot at the demon, who had just thrown Dean against the wall, and had been standing over him, still. Dean slumped to the ground, looking a little dazed, but the sound of bullets being fired woke him up. The first, second, and third bullet struck it in the chest, and it snapped forward with each attack.

Dean cursed up a storm as he got to his feet, staring down the demon's, whose bright eyes were now back, and glowed more brightly than before. He raised his own gun, seeing to it that he finished it off, but it was suddenly pushed up against him, its bloody wounds against his, and it grabbed each side of his head. Vertigo stuck through him like lightning.

Sam cried out when he heard the choking noises Dean started to make, and dropped his gun, knowing he couldn't risk shooting it now with it so close to his brother. He pushed himself to his feet, and clenched his jaw as he forcefully separated the half-dead demon from Dean. Both of them fell limply to the ground once he tore them apart.

"Oh, god, Dean? Dean, look at me, Dean, _look at me_." He positioned himself hunched over him, and lightly slapped Dean's cheek. "Come on, big brother. _Say something_." He begged in a breathless whisper. What had the demon done to him? You know, other than the gashes in his chest.

A deep sound erupted from Dean's throat, sounding irritated, and vaguely sounded like 'Sam'—at least, to Sam it did, and that was enough. His eyes went from the blonde to the demon a few times, because in all his years of this shit, Sam had learned that sometimes, being dead wasn't being dead _enough_.

"That's it, you… you jerk, you. Just tell me…" His hand now cupped Dean's dirty cheek, and he exhaled sharply, trying to control the wheezing breaths that his overworked lungs managed to produce. That's when it hit him, and he froze, his eyes widening. His damn vision. He looked down to find Dean's glossy eyes staring right back at him. "I… we… _shit_."

∞∞∞

With his mouth scrunched pensively to the side, Dean gingerly touched the side of his head. The sides where the demon had grabbed him were tender, and felt like a nasty sunburn. He half-expected to wake up to two bald spots—oh, boy, wouldn't that have been just his luck?

"All right, I found some gauze—would you stop pacing and sit down? Geesh, man." Sam walked out of the bathroom, holding a white first aid container. He frowned at his brother, and even lightly wrapped his fingers around his elbow, leading him to the bed. When Dean attempted to resist, he pushed him down on the bed, carefully, albeit impatiently.

"I love it when you get rough." He kicked back, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling while wearing a smirk. He let Sam probe at his torn shirt—he had earlier peeled off his jacket—and listened carefully for any hitches in his breath. He had to go by Sam's reaction, not his words. Dean never was one who wanted the sugarcoated truth.

"What… what is… the demon's blood? _Black_?"

"Were you expecting it to be a sparkly fuchsia color?"

"It's _all over you_, Dean."

"So? A lot of things get all over me." He lifted up his head (and when the hell did it start feeling like it packed on a few extra pounds?) as Sam left the room and came back a moment later with a sponge and a pale orange bucket that was filled halfway with water. "What the hell—you're going to give me a sponge bath _now_? I thought we'd at least wait until after—"

"Shut up." He set the sponge in the bucket, and then set the bucket besides the bed on the ground while he worked on getting the shirt off Dean. "You could sit up for this you know."

"Why, so you can have easier access to my mouth?" He tried to bat his killer eyelashes, but his head in general felt screwed up, so his eyelids ended up looking a bit twitchy instead. He propped himself up on his elbows, and then slowly shifted into a sitting position. The chest abrasions were shallow, and unknown to Sam, were the least of his problems.

"Shut up." Sam repeated in a mumble with an eye roll, moving forward to take off his brother's shirt, but Dean scoffed, slipping the long sleeved shirt off himself, and then followed that movement by pulling off the t-shirt that was under the first one. He put a steady hand on one shoulder as he leaned in, examining the, while thick in width, shallow cuts. He bit down hard on his lower lip, noticing the black and red crust that outlined a few (there were ten all together) of the wounds. _Their blood mingled_…

"You're holding your breath." Sam felt the hot breath hit against his forehead, and he heard the faint trace of amusement in Dean's voice, but he just suddenly felt out of it as fear clutched at his heart. He looked up, his worried and guilty gaze meeting Dean's, and the older male recognized it instantly and looked away. Sam would blame himself for world hunger if he could.

"Am not." Sam stubbornly stated through a long exhale.

"Were too."

"Were—oh, bite me." He used his hand that was still on his brother's shoulder to lever him down, and with his other hand, he reached down off the bed and pulled out the sponge from the pail of warm, soapy water. Dean tensed up before the sponge touched his flushed body, and really didn't look quite happy about this. He asked why they couldn't just sprinkle a little holy water and call it quits, but Sam hadn't really answered his question when he replied with, "the holy water comes next."

"You sadistic little _bitch_."

"Hey now, I could be cleansing these wounds with a _steel wool pad_." _Keep the mood light_. Sam silently urged himself. _Just keep the mood light…_ Everything would be fine. The scratches were shallow, but they had bled, and a battered Dean had messed with bleeding demons before. Hell, _many_ times before… right? "I'm going to have to scrub a little, man, so this is going to—"

"Hurt. Ah, just bring it, dude." Dean's eyelids started to droop. He raised an arm and waved his hand. "They're a bit itchy, too, so put some muscle into it, 'k?"

Sam worked diligently on his brother's chest for over fifteen minutes. The water in the pail was now tainted a grayish color, and the once yellow sponge was stained with gray and pink. The older hunter's chest was cleaned and raw. With uncertainty of the situation, he decided one more time wouldn't do any harm, but that was when Dean just had to crack, "well, you know Sammy, I hope demons aren't _positive_," and Sam dropped the sponge.

"If there's one person in the world who could do it, it would be me. Yeah. I'm the only person in the world who could ever manage to get infected by a demonically-transmitted—"

"Shut up, Dean, _shut up_." Sam pushed himself off the bed so heavily and quickly that the bucket tipped over. The pink carpet turned a deep red where the water spilled. Dean's eye went from it and up to his brother's, and he asked, raising his voice, "what the hell's the matter with you?"

Sam knew something was wrong, that something was off—he knew it, and he could feel it with every fiber of his being. It scared him, it really freaking scared him but Dean would never understand. He _couldn't_ understand—he'd just blow it off, and Sam was not about to let that happen.

"Nothing's the matter with me." Sam finally answered, his voice calm and even. _But what's the matter with you?_

∞∞∞

'_Shut up, shut up, shut up…'_

_Breathlessly, he staggered into the small bathroom, the door closing shut with a soft click behind him. He was breathing heavily through his nostrils, grinding his teeth distractingly, and he relaxed against the door, his chest heaving, his shoulders hunched forward. The palms of both hands were pressed against either sides of his head, his eyes now tightly shut, and his forehead deeply furrowed. _

_The healing wounds that decorated his chest constricted painfully when he slid down the doorway into a sitting position, hissing in pain. His hands were still clamped against his head, and now beads of perspiration popped up along his hairline. His breathing became more erratic and he fought to control it, but his blood and brain demanded their full fix of oxygen. _

"_Jesus Christ." He swore in vain, the pain in his head getting worse and worse. Voices mixed together and overlapped each other, each one louder than the last. Some whispers, some screams, some pleas, some—_

'_Shut up, shut up, shut up…' _

_He pushed himself up, the wounds re-expanding on his chest, and he scrambled to the tub where he hastily turned the metal shower knobs on full blast. Small blobs of unusually dark blood peeked through his gray t-shirt, and he gasped for air, unable to even make his own coherent thoughts in the mess that was his mind._

'_Shut up, shut up, shut up…'_

_He closed the shower curtain in one quick movement, nearly tearing it off. He turned around to the sink, turning both faucets all the way. He needed to drown everything out. On the ceramic counter was a small radio, and he even turned that up, the volume blasting, not even caring what station it was on. _

'_Everyone shut the fuck up!' _

_He fell to his knees, his handsome face scrunched up in pain. He collapsed forward onto his wounded chest, barely feeling the physical pain, and hummed. He hummed any song he could think of, one after another, as loudly as his voice box would allow. Water escaped from the side where the curtain curled and ended, and sprayed against the side of his face, and country music boomed from the plastic radio, but he concentrated only on his humming, and slowly succumbed to the pain. _

∞∞∞

The sheets stuck to his skin like wet Velcro. Sam pulled himself into a sitting position, a headache throbbing at his temples. His hair, lightly damped with perspiration, was matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. When did it get so warm in here? He made a mental note to turn on the air conditioning.

'_Shut up, shut up, shut up…'_ He blinked once, twice. Memories from his… his vision… or maybe, his nightmare, flooded back in quick flashes. He hunches forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, a palm pressed to his forehead. The air in the room felt so thick, and his skin felt warm and clammy. '_Shut up, shut up, shut up…'_

"Dean." His brother's name croaked from his throat, and though he meant to call it out as more of a question, it was a statement, and his head shoot up. _Dean_. Even with his mind racing, he pushed away his headache, the vision, and turned on the lamp between the two beds. The light flickered several times as his eyes trailed over to the opposite bed.

Dean stirred enough in his sleep to roll onto his back, flinching at the suddenly exposure of light, so Sam quickly turned it off, not wanting to wake him up. What was that all about? Sam wanted to ignore it, say it was just a nightmare, but it wasn't—it had felt so… real. He bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Sam let out a shaky breath, getting up to turn on the air before he returned back to his bed, his eyes still fixed on Dean. Finally, he sighed, turning around his pillow, and he lay down, facing the older hunter. How does one tell their brother that they had a vision of him—in absolute agony?

His eyes fluttered closed, but minutes later, he opened an eye, glaring down at his wristwatch. His hand was positioned under his chin, his fingers curled inward. The ticking of the watch annoyed him, so he tugged it off, lazily tossing it onto nightstand. Tick, tick. He tried to settle into slumber again, but so much was nagging at him.

_I'm here, Dean_. He silently promised. _For you_.

But from learned experience, he wasn't sure if that would suffice.

∞∞∞


	2. Chapter 2

∞∞∞

Dean wore a digital watch, but at the moment, he heard a distant tick, tick, ticking sound. His eyes were closed, and he was sure he was sleeping, or at least he had been sleeping, but that persistent tick, tick, ticking sound worked as an anchor. It tugged him back from his nirvana of speeding cars and scantily clad women, which irritated the hell out of him.

"What are you doing up?" Warm breath licked at his ear, and a thousand chills scampered down his spine. The soft feminine voice sounded so familiar and so unfamiliar at the same time. In a beat, he was sitting up in a chair, and someone was leaning against him, a comforting arm draped around his shoulders. "Come to bed…" Her voice suggestively urged with a purr. Tick, tick.

"I'll be there in a few minutes." The promising words that passed through his lips weren't his. He'd be there in a few minutes? Dean Winchester was pretty damn sure he never said that, thought that, or will ever say it. He felt lips press against his temple in a sweet kiss. His heart skipped a beat as his pulse raced—why did this feel so right and so wrong at the same time?

"Don't keep me waiting." Oh, sweetheart, I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously. Flames of confusion ignited, dancing around tauntingly. Tingles of déjà vu crashed like waves on a beach in the back of his mind. Soft blonde tresses swayed, brushing against his cheek as the body hesitantly pulled away from him, giving his shoulder a tight, compassionate squeeze before leaving him completely. Tick, tick.

What was this heartache he was feeling? He felt himself grasping something in his hand, and he opened his eyes to a room of darkness. He could make out an entertainment system, a plant, and a picture frame on the wall. Nothing felt familiar; none of it meant anything to him. He blinked a few times, wrinkling his nose up a little. What a terrible dream.

Then he looked down at what he was holding and saw that it was a cell phone. He pressed a button so that the screen would light up, and his breath caught in his chest when he saw the contacts list—his name highlight. Now he was sure something was off. His thumb touched the key to make the phone call, but he suddenly found himself putting the phone aside. Tick, tick.

"I know you said you'd be there in a few minutes…" That voice was back, and he felt heat boil up in his lower abdomen. Why was he feeling like this? _What are you…_? Fingers threaded through his hair, the touch so soothing, and the woman saddled his lap. _Oh, okay_. "But I missed you." Moist, velvet soft lips crushed against his. He closed his eyes.

"What would I do without you?" A voice asked in the background, echo, echo, echoing. There was that tick, tick, ticking. There was the feeling of being loved, of loving someone. Panic finally set in, and his heart thump, thump, thumped painfully against his ribcage.

A whisper of, "crash and burn" tickled his skin, and the phrase was repeated over and over again. Crash—crash—crash—and, and, and—burn, burn, burn. Burn. It was no longer the jeering whispers that tickled his skin, now was heat—flames. Something wet dripped onto his face. He opened his eyes, and that was something he suddenly regretted. Tick, tick.

A body pinned like a butterfly to the wall, flames waving jauntily at him while circling around the woman's body. Mom? He first thought, but then heard, "Jess!" He wrinkled up his nose in confusion. Jess? No… wait, Sam's Jess? Jessica? Why would he… about her? "Jess, no!" He let out a sharp exhale of air like he'd been sucker punched in the stomach as the range of emotions hit him dead on. There was this newfound guilt poking at him with such fierce persistency.

Dean shot up in bed with a breathless grunt. Pain jolted up his stiff neck, lingering in various places of his throbbing head. He pressed a palm against his heaving sore chest while scratching the back of his head with his other hand. What the hell was that? He looked to the right, where his younger brother slept, tossing and turning like he was lost in an eternal hell.

God, I need a beer. Or, you know, even three—or five. He pushed himself up, checking the time. It was three o' five, and yes, ante meridiem. Dean pulled back the covers with a yawn, even though he didn't feel tired at all. He felt wide-awake, sore, and, well, confused. He was all for trying new things, but that? An experience he didn't care to have again.

A day had passed since their run in with the demon. Dean had wanted to leave the town the following morning, but Sam, using his powers of persuasion (read: puppy dog eyes), talked him into staying the weekend, at least until he, Dean, felt better, although the headache gods were not kind to neither one of them.

"Dean?" A groggy voice called out, and the fine hair on the back of Dean's arms and neck stood straight on edge once the next few words were mumbled out. "What are you doing up?" His head snapped to the side. Sam was propped up on one elbow, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his other hand.

"You… I… got to piss."

"Then why don't you?" How long had Sam been lying there, watching him? Dean wasn't even sure how long he sat there, dazed, deep in thought.

He flung a leg over the side of the bed. "I'm working on it." The cool air slapped against his warm flesh, and he shivered. When did it get so cold in here? Sam hadn't sounded convinced, and asked if he was all right. _I'll get back to you on that_. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

As Sam tried to get comfortable under the sheets that he had managed to become entangled in, some shuffling was heard. "You never know." He finally settled, shutting his eyes.

Dean eased his leg back onto the bed, and turned around onto his stomach. His hand slipped under his pillow, his fingertips brushed against the handle of the knife he had under there. "Yeah." He admitted, grunting into the soft pillow. "You're right."

The brunette's dark eyes snapped open. _I am... I am?_ He heard Dean yawn loudly, and utter out another, "yeah," and a stressed out, "'_night_, Sam," that served as a warning to shut up and go to bed—or else… the wrath of Dean! Ooh, shudder. Sam chuckled softly, closing his eyes yet again even though he was wide-awake.

Just a nightmare—that's all it was. Just a dream…

Sam wrinkled up his nose. _Oh, shut up_.

∞∞∞

**Va·ca·tion **

n.

1. A period of time devoted to pleasure, rest, or relaxation, especially one with pay granted to an employee.

2. A. A holiday  
B. A fixed period of holidays, especially one during which a school, court, or business suspends activities.

3. _Archaic_. The act or an instance of vacating.

It seemed simple enough, or at least the very idea of it had. It was all Sam wanted. Only Dean had reminded him that they didn't get paid vacation leave, but the younger brother pointed out that they received no pay to begin with. Dean chuckled in response, and told him that wasn't what he meant.

"Coordinates."

Sam's shoulders slumped forward. Oh, boy. It only took that one—_one_—word to set him off. He set down the book he had been reading, and crossed his arms over his chest, a sign that he meant business. "No." He stated sternly, his eyes shooting daggers at the cell phone Dean held up, the small screen lit up. "_No_."

"_Coordinates_, Sam."

Was it too much to just want to relax for one freaking weekend—three days and two nights? Dean reminded him that in their line of work, the supernatural didn't take _vacations_—it didn't wait for _anyone_, especially not for the "two cool dudes" who could "tear it a new one." But Sam stood firm on his decision—no freaking way, José.

"Fine, then I'll do it solo."

A shiver swept down Sam's spine. No, no—he had to watch Dean, look out for him. He needed to make sure his nightmare stayed a nightmare. Those six words had done it—had changed his mind. He let out a defeated sigh and glanced down at his sock clad feet.

"You know, other fathers, they'd—"

"Not all fathers have had their _wife_ killed by a _demon_." He flipped his cell phone shut, lifting up his hardened gaze to meet his brother's. An unrecognizable emotion flickered in Sam's eyes, making Dean suddenly avert his gaze, as if he knew what Sam was about to say.

"And not all sons have had their _girlfriend_ killed by a _demon_."

Dean rubbed his chest uncomfortably, the curve of his thumb digging into the slowly healing flesh wounds through the thickness of his shirts. He cleared his throat. "It's a long road, Sammy. We going or not?" He knew Dean already knew the answer, but he nodded anyway, clenching his jaw.

"We're going."

Dean smirked.

"But I'm driving."

Dean no longer smirked.

∞∞∞

"Okay, that last one? You hit purposely." Dean's narrowed eyes sent Sam one message: _I'm on to you, bitch_. He'd been glaring the message for the past four hours at Sam since they drove through a large puddle, and the smartass had commented, "what, do you want me to get out and lay out my jacket over the next puddle so water won't splatter all over your soot-covered car?" Yeah, Dean hadn't been very happy with that remark.

"Dean, man, there's barely any road between the potholes in Pennsylvania." Honestly, Sam was a good driver—given his family, he was genetically destined to be, although genetic differences have already been proved—and Dean trusted Sam, but it was everyone and everything else Dean never trusted. He had to look out for his baby brother… and his luscious 1967 Chevy Impala. "I'm glad the _Great One_ sent us here. The scenery of cows is awe-inspiring. Maybe we're here to track down a possessed cow tipper?"

"I'm getting quite sick of that sarcasm, Sam." Dean warned him, and while Dean was his brother, he had taken a parental tone. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't ever be the last. The tension between them, if possible, got thicker, and it certainly didn't help when Sam had to strive to get the last word in.

"I could say the same thing. Pots and kettles, you know."

He'd been slouching in his seat, looking over a folded map and some papers they had printed out, but now sat up straighter, allowing the mess of papers in his lap to slip onto the ground. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" He demanded to know.

"It means I'm sick of you always brushing me off with some smart-aleck comment. It's getting old, Dean." There was a look in Dean's eyes that made him accidentally excel on the gas pedal. _Oh, no. No_. He couldn't piss off Dean, not now. What if pushing him away led to… wait, what _was_ happening to Dean in his vision? Was it… something… something with his head? Had to be. Still waiting for what Dean had to say about that, he glanced over, only to find Dean staring at him, hard. His gaze pierced through him, making him shiver.

A beat later, Dean blinked, confused, and looked away, his jaw slack. He shrugged a shoulder, unsure, his mind elsewhere. "Yeah, well, it's the summer. Expect repeats." The tone of his voice was off, maybe different, perhaps lower. He impatiently drummed his fingers against the door handle. "Huh—cows _and_ horses. Maybe we'll get a taste of the Headless Horseman?"

Sam suppressed a frown that made his lips twitch. He was facing forward, gripping the steering wheel, but his eyes lingered sideways, studying his brother. "Maybe." He timidly answered, drawing out the 'y' sound.

∞∞∞

They found a motel outside a rural area that felt like it had been half the size of Russia, but it's a small motel, with even smaller rooms. The beds took up most of the space, and were practically shoved together. Dean smirked at the sight, while Sam frowned deeply, ducking as he entered the room to avoid hitting his head off the top of the doorframe.

"Small beds." He commented dryly, dropping the knapsack he kept thrown over his shoulder. He carefully set down Dean's laptop, because while it wasn't as infamous as the car, it was equally important. He kicked off his sneakers, and started to unbutton his blue plaid shirt.

"Yeah, so keep to your own side. If so much as a cold toe wanders over, I'm stabbing it." And to emphasis his threat, Dean slid out a knife from their bag and walked over, picking up the pillow off the bed. He set down the knife, and put down the pillow, giving it a light pat before turning back to Sam, who scoffed.

"Thanks. But you know, when someone usually says that, they end up being the one who does it." He lifted a brow up challenging, but Dean waved a hand at him.

"Oh, you _wish_ you could cuddle with my toes, Sammy." He sat down on the edge of the bed, raising a brow at how much it drooped, but paid no attention, and unlaced his boots.

"Yeah, I dream about it nightly." He didn't notice Dean look up at him as he walked past the beds to the bathroom, holding a paper bag that contained their bathroom necessities. He didn't hear the deep inhale that took place before Dean hesitantly asked him what he has been dreaming of lately. The fluorescent light above his head flickered. Did Dean know? No, no… he couldn't. He attempted to keep his voice even and calm. Nothing was wrong—nothing, nothing, _nothing_. "Why?"

"Don't know—just curious. Looks like you've been sleeping better lately. No more…" Then came the sound of him lazily dropping his heavy boot. "Nightmares?" He began to unlace the other, his fingers working quickly, almost anxiously. The miniature room already began to make him feel claustrophobic.

"Nightmares?" An image of Dean falling to his knees flashed in front of his eyes. He blinked rapidly before shutting them tightly—_no, no, not again, not now_. _I got it the first time_.

Dean opened his mouth to say, 'yes nightmares, Sam, you know, the reason you've avoided sleep—the reason you've willing watched freakin' infomercials until you've memorized each cheesy line,' but he wasn't in the mood to play games. "Don't play stupid with me."

"Like you've said, Dean, I've been sleeping better lately." Yes, that was his answer. It wasn't _completely_ a lie; he was just restating what Dean _thought_. But panic still stuck in the pit of his gut—he knew something was going to happen to Dean, and he still didn't know how to stop it. How was he going to stop something from happened to Dean without Dean knowing that he was trying to stop something from… oh, god, what? Confusion steamed up, and he sighed a warily and weary sigh.

Dean dropped his other boot, and fell back with a restless yawn. A spring poked into his back, but he didn't care. A headache had taken toll on his mind, and he swore he could feel it rallying up into a migraine. His neck and shoulders were stuff, and it even hurt to blink. His mind felt almost… fuzzy, like the antenna broke on a television and the screen was now all snowy.

_Got to tell_… _save_… _won't lose_… _can't_… _not now_… _ever_…

His chest burned, and bolts of pain hammered again inside his head. He bit down hard on his tongue, the metallic taste never registering. His eyeballs moved erratically under closed eyelids. Why the hell was he… was he hearing Sam?

_Lies… vision… truth… protect from… oh, Dean…_

He rolled to his side, and then onto his stomach. He had slid off the bed a little, and now his hips dug into the side. He buried his face into the thin quilt, inhaling the wrong scent of bleach that made something in the back of his head tingle, and nausea trembled in his stomach.

_This sucks out loud… this is the suckiest thing to have ever sucked_. Oh, okay, yes, his voice. That's what he wanted to hear.

In the background, he heard the faucet running, and Sam brushing his teeth. He had struggled not to make any noise, but now, just as soon as it had started, the attack was over. Dean took a few extra seconds to regain composure before he undressed until he was clothed only in boxers and an undershirt, and he climbed into the bed, and under the covers.

Oh, god, he felt so physically tired. His body wanted sleep--it _demanded_ sleep, but his brain, oh his stubborn brain, just wouldn't allow it. The room light flicked off, and he felt Sam on the bed next to him, on the bed not even three inches away. So close, too close—the pain still pulsed in his head, quickening and throbbing even more when Sam reached over to give his arm a little shove before whispering, 'good night.'

Dean scooted as far to the edge as he could without falling off, and shifted so he was on his side, his back facing his brother. Oh, yeah, no way he was getting any shuteye tonight. No, sir, he just couldn't, or rather, wouldn't. It sounded nice, to rest, and the vacation Sam had wanted now sounded like such a marvelous idea.

"Dean?"

"Go to sleep, Sam."

"Are you—?"

"I'm fine."

Sam sighed lightly, trying to hold in his aggravation. _You're always fine_.

"Damn straight dude, I _am_ always _fine_." Even at a late hour, Dean was still Dean, and Sam, who mumbled, "and damn near impossible," was still Sam. Dean turned onto his back, and nodded up at the ceiling, puckering up his lips in consideration, like, '_yeah, sure, maybe_.'

It was like a delayed realization reaction for Sam. He relaxed, stretched out his tired limbs, closed his eyes… and then snapped those eyes wide open. Sam sat straight up, griping a fistful of the pale blue sheets. He looked over at his brother, staring hard at the back of his head, almost expectantly, like he expected Dean to realize that… realize that… he just read his mind? Is that what he did? He brought his other hand to his forehead—no fever, okay. There was no way in hell he imagined that.

"Dean?" His voice cracked, and he continued to glare at Dean's head, practically boring holes there. His mind raced with questions, and he needed answers. Sam was more than sure he hadn't said anything out loud. He reached over, tightly grasping Dean's shoulder. "Dean."

Dean responded with a grunting groan. "Goddammit all Sam, has anyone ever told you that you think just way too freakin' much?"

∞∞∞


	3. Chapter 3

∞∞∞

In the same breath, Sam managed to drag Dean out of bed and flip the light switch on the shoddy motel wall. While he lacked the impression of surprise, he didn't look too pleased, but Sam assumed by the way his hands grasped at the torn hem of his t-shirt, tugging it down, he had already sensed the command about to slip past his lips. He waved a shaky hand, gesturing his shirt.

"Take it off."

"Eh, sorry Sammy boy, but not until _at_ _least_ the end of the first date. I have morals to uphold, you know?" He flashed a cocky smile up at him, but within two minutes ("all right, all right, the _middle_ of the first date, geesh, you impatient jerk"), Dean was standing shirtless in the bathroom with Sam hunched over, examining his chest. He looked peeved, and glared up at the ceiling, counting the wads of spitballs stuck there.

"They're infected." The earlier, innocent appearance of the assumed shallow cuts was gone. The tan skin surrounding the abrasions was now warm and deeply flushed. Parts had stuck to the thin t-shirt Dean wore, and had reopened at the removal, which caused thick greenish yellow puss to ooze out. The sickening sight made Sam's stomach flop. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Don't do that." Dean snapped, jerking back and smacking away Sam's hand when he tried to press a hand to his forehead to check for a fever. "I'm fine." Even Dean made a face at his choice of words, and ignored the dubious look Sam shot his way. "So, a few scratches are a bit infected. I've gotten infected wounds before, it's normal." No matter how hard he tried there was no way he could brush Sam off his case now.

"Sure, but reading minds? That's not normal."

"Yeah? And neither is having visions." Ooh, burn. As much as he hated to admit it, the whole visions thing put a damper on Sam's aspiration to live a normal life. The brunette ducked his head, and scratched at the back of his ear.

"Can you… can you do it, like, read my mind, right now?" His breath caught in his throat when Dean's eyes met his. The look his brother gave him just made him… shiver. The way he squinted his eyes in the littlest way made his pulse race. Oh, shit, there's just no way… Despite everything Sam has seen, he just didn't want to believe this, it…

"It freaks you out." Dean smirked slightly, his arms behind his back. He rocked back and forth on his heels, chucking softly when Sam's eyes widened. "Get a hold of yourself. 'Freaked the fuck out' is written all over your pale ass face, man. You've always been one readable little prick."

"So you can't?"

Dean looked Sam straight in the eye, and without batting an eyelash, he stated, "no, I can't." Sam kept his eyes locked on his brother's troubled gaze as he mumbled about running to the car for the first aid kit. Once the younger male left, Dean let out a long exhale he hadn't even realize he'd been holding and sat down at the edge of the bed. His shoulders, stiff with needed sleep, slumped forward, and he threaded a hand through his short hair.

Did it count as lying if you hadn't… but felt like you had? He and Sam had always been able to communicate just by facial expressions—this wasn't any different, right? Just some fluke, that's all. He couldn't… how ridiculous does that sound? _Read minds_! Hah. _I'm no Jean Grey_, _or Prof. X_. (Although he was far prettier than the two of them put together.)

Sam reentered, already going through the kit. He kneeled down besides Dean, grabbing his long fingers across his brother's wrist; Dean's hand had found it's way to scratching at the infected wounds, and he pried it away. Oddly enough, judging by the stoical expression on his face, he felt no pain in having his dirty fingernails dig into the injured flesh.

"I'm going to have to clean them out again. As soon as we're done, we need to research that demon I—we killed, which we should have done _before_ hand." How the hell did Sam manage to sound like he was scorning at either of them? Another dad inherited talent, perhaps? However, the guilt eating away at Sam was evident.

"I told you—it's nothin' Sam, and you… we, you—the vision—well, _fuck_. _It_ was wrong. We're not always going to hit a homerun anyway."

"No, _I_ was wrong." Something suddenly flashed in Dean's head—the demon, the quick dark image of kneeling over—was this Sam's vision? He shut his eyes tightly, hissing in pain not caused by the peroxide soaked cloth that was pressed to his chest.

"Stop it!" He snapped, opening an eye to steal a glance at Sam, who concentrated solely on his chest. Any other day, he would've looked past his brother's hardened gaze, the way his brow furrowed the slightest bit, his clenched jaw. He would've figured it was just his brother doing that damn brooding thing he always did, but now, it seemed… it seemed _different_.

"Dean Winchester, are you _whining_? Almost done, man." Dean scowled because he was not whining—his freaking younger brother just wouldn't let shit go. Since he knew what had happened, the visional images became lighter, like they made more sense, but he did not, not, _not_ want to think about that. "Hey, are you—_Dean_? You look—"

"Like shit?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then I guess it's like looking into a much handsomer mirror, huh?" His 'huh' at the end turned into more of a yelp of 'ow' when Sam pressed down hard on the end of an abrasion. "Jesus Sam, you're like a raging Florence Nightingale on crack."

Sam scoffed and did an eye roll. "I'll let that one slip for now, but Dean? Just promise me something."

"My virginity?"

There was a ghost of a smile. "I'd rather you promise me something that's existent." But even that faded. Sam retracted his arm, looking for povidone-iodine inside of the kit near his feet. "Just promise not to keep anything from me, okay? Like, no lies, or white lies, or fibbing. Keep everything straight with me until we figure this one out, yeah?"

Dean's full lips twitched into a frown. "Whatever happened to a person just having some things they need to keep to themselves?"

Annoyance, and possibly impatience, flickered in Sam's dark eyes. He bit down on his lower lip, looking down squarely at the ground, obviously holding what he really wanted to say in. "Just think about what I'm saying, all right?" There was a plea laced within his tone, but Dean merely shrugged a shoulder, indifferent. Sam studied his brother's near expressionless face for a few seconds before he mentally cursed and stood up. _If anyone should get the ability to read minds, it should be me. What the hell's going on in there, Dean?_ "I can't find the iodine. I'll go get the other kit out of the car."

"Heh. Psychic Boy Wonder's jealous that I've out-_Shining_'d him." Dean mused out loud to himself with a chuckle. But then he realized what he'd just done and nearly slapped his forehead. "Shit." And why the hell was his chest starting to hurt now? It felt like a blazing fire ripped through his chest when he lay back on the bed. With closed eyes, he set the back of his hand against his warm forehead. _What is going on in here_?

∞∞∞

"Can you read her's?" The Winchester brothers sat in a booth at a diner, both functioning on the sleep they managed to gather… the night _before_. By now it was lunchtime, and they spent most of the morning researching whatever it was that bled all over Dean. It all proved futile, so to take his mind off it, Dean suggested food, you know, that little something their bodies seemed to like once in a while.

Dean's eyes shot up from the menu as a waitress strolled by them, counting money. He licked his lips, pausing for a couple of seconds. "No, but—_woo_, I wish I could."

"So just mine, huh?"

"I can't read your mind, Sammy, let it go."

"Let it go? _Let it go_?"

"Well, sure, you don't see me patronizing you about your visions." Sweet Jesus, Dean could not stifle his snicker when Sam audibly gasped. "Careful, you might swallow a—"

"Good afternoon, guys. Are you ready?"

"Am I ever, sweet—_hee_." Under the table, Sam stepped down hard on Dean's foot. Once they placed their orders, and the waitress turned around, Dean kicked the brunette in the shin, which earned a wince and a, "ow, you friggin' jerk!" With wide eyes, Dean suddenly leaned in. "Why Sam, I _knew_ you were going to say that!"

"Oh, sure, mock the situation, Dean. That'll go over well."

"_And_ that!" Unexpectedly, Sam _smiled_. Alas, the sun reflected off his white teeth of Chiclets, and Dean was temporarily blinded. "Just quit worrying, your face is wrinkled enough as it is. If you were ever turned into a dog again, you'd probably be a pug."

"You were much more appealing as a mute." With a round mug of steaming coffee in each hand, the waitress returned to the table. Sam practically drooled at the bittersweet sight, and Dean, well, Dean picked sleep out of his eyes while wondering how sleep got in there when he never even got to taste any slumber. "Hey Dean?"

Dean sipped on his coffee while pouring sugar in. What a procrastinator he was. "Hmm?" When Sam hadn't droned on with anything, he glanced up, wrinkling his nose the slightest bit when the rising steam tickled his nostrils. "What?"

"Just checking."

"Whatever, dude."

∞∞∞

Sam easily had grown wary. But do you have any idea how hard it is to _stop thinking_? Every damn time he met his brother's eyes, or if he caught Dean staring at him, he'd purposely make his mind go blank—or he'd think of paper! Yes, paper—white, thick, rich, blank paper. Paper, paper, paper. Sam _loved_ paper! Sometimes, when he didn't want to make his brother suspicious of his deep affection for paper, he'd think of a book he read, or wanted to read, and listed reasons he wanted to read the book, or reasons he hated/liked the book…

In other words, Sam was _so_ freaking paranoid that Dean was reading his mind. Dean insisted that he wasn't, but just had to mention there wasn't an on/off switch for it, which, if possible, made Sam even more so paranoid. His brother, of course, noticed, and mumbled something about being neurotic, and purposely stared at Sam's profile, his eyes bug wide, and his brow cocked for that, '_oh, I know what you're thinking_,' feel.

But he couldn't, or at least, not he was unable when he wanted to, or tried to, like really concentrated on it. But that's the thing; he wasn't sure what to concentrate on, other than _Sam_. Staring at his head until he saw pink elephants proved to be a waste of time, but it did make Sam antsy enough to where he uncomfortably shifted around a lot in the driver's seat. To be honest, it wasn't much of a loss to him—he _really_ didn't want that much insight on Sam's mind.

"Where're we headed?" Dean was on the passenger side, half-leaning against the locked door. The angle he was sitting in gave him a perfect view of Sam, hence all the stare jeering. It reminded him of when they were children, and traveling in the car for long periods of time. He'd stare fixed and hard at Sam until the scrawny twerp whined to daddy dearest ("Stop staring at me, Dean! Stop! _Stop it_! Dad, Dean's staring at me; make him stop! _Dad_!"), and the preoccupied John would reach back, swatting a hand at Dean, telling him to knock it the hell off.

"Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

"Oh, shove it up your ass, why don't you?" The older brother groaned, rolling his head back. God, he felt so tired. "I'm not reading your mind, genius. Just keep your pretty eyes on the road and quit looking over at me like I'm a demon you don't trust."

"There are demons we trust?"

"It was—oh, never mind." He opened the glove compartment, cursing when a bunch of fake identification cards spilled out. He used one hand to maneuver them back in and snatched his sunglasses. "I'm gonna go get funky with Tyra in dreamland. Wake me up when this nightmare's over." Dean relaxed, sinking back into his seat, his sunglasses (which, instead of "hot!" screamed "eye surgery!") in place. "And pullover for some gas already. I don't think cows take kindly to stranded, tall Kansas freaks." Yeah, stranded, tall Kansas freaks… with random Texas accents.

"Tall Kansas freaks? How 'bout that tall Kansas freak and his goofy looking shorter older freak brother?"

The sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. "Goofy looking, _Sammy_?"

"_Freckle face_… I need you. _Freckle face_… I love you." Sam howled, lacking the sing-along voice.

"God, please… one bolt of lightning, that's all I'm askin' for."

∞∞∞

Alas, not five minutes after Dean shut his eyes, the man their father wanted them to see rang. The man was impatient, arrogant, and an asshole. (Obviously a close friend of John's.) Sam, with a clenched jaw, politely told him that they were on their way, and that they would be there as soon as possible. The man, Ron McSomething, was unconvinced, and told them to hurry their asses.

"Or what? He'll tell daddy?" Dean stated dryly after Sam hung up. "Come on, man, really—you don't give shit to the only people who can help you with your stupid Casper problem." He also made a quip about the Ghostbusters or something, but Sam ignored his brother's ranting and urged him to go back to sleep, even though they would be at their destination in a half hour, but Dean sat up straighter, brushing the suggestion off.

In thirty-four minutes, it was clear that Ron wanted John to make his house free of malevolent spirits, not his sons. Dean smirked, pointing out that they were trained by the best, but the smirk curved into a pissed off frown when Ron made a face that told them he wanted The Best, not The Best's Apprentices. "And I want the job done the right way the _first_ time." The short, balding man warned them.

"Well, sir, if there's one thing I'm good at doing, it's first times." Sam lifted up his foot, and stomped it to the ground, just missing Dean's abused foot. He ignored Dean's triumph smile, and turned his attention to Ron, who had just glanced down at his wristwatch.

"Now, you said you noticed the ghosts a few months ago. Why wait until now to get rid of them?" They stood outside the aforementioned haunted house, in front of the owner's station wagon that Dean had to stifle a laugh at.

Ron sighed, all annoyed-like, like Sam should already know this. He pulled a bent cigarette from his pocket, set it between his cracked lips and lit it. "Because, _junior_, two months ago when I bought this dump, the damn thing wasn't chucking my keys at me, or smashing my _good_ dishes, or moving my bed while I slept. Little cheeky bastard kept stealing my pillow while I slept too."

"The horror." Dean mused in a bored monotone, just missing another foot stomping from Sam, who was clenching his jaw. When Ron shot him a dirty look, he cleared his throat. "Oh, yeah, and we once had a guy who woke up every morning with his bed completely stripped. Clothes, too. Turned out to be, ah, leprechauns." They ended up finding half a year supply of bed sheets, quilts, and clothes in a hole in the basement.

"That's great, but this is a _ghost_. Keep your cute little stories and any theories to yourself." Oh, no he didn't. Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, moving forward, but Sam suddenly clapped a hand to his shoulder, pulling him back in one quick tug. _We need the money_. Sam silently reminded Dean, but his older brother showed no signs of having heard him. Go figure.

But Dean really didn't need the reminder. He knew how light his wallet was. "Yes, sir." He answered tersely, looking like he wanted to choke the middle-aged man. Ron seemed amused by this, and let out a puff of smoke as he patted Dean on the shoulder, like a taunt. He turned his shoulders to the side to give the house a glance over, but his chest constricted against the movement. Oh goody, this was going to be a fun weekend.

"I'll leave you boys to your game. I'll be back Monday morning. Gives you two days, and I expect there to be one less guest staying at my home, get me?" Still ever so respectful, they answered in unison with, 'yes, sir.' He closed the top of his trunk, and turned back to them. "And don't break anything." Ron limped over to the driver's side. He opened the door and climbed in, grunting all the way. "Oh, and I counted all the silverware—don't try anything funny." The car nosily started up.

"Dammit Sam, he caught on to us. I bet he counted all his socks and tighty-whities, too." Dean waved fervently at the car until it was off in the distance. Sam, through a sigh, observed him verbally as an ass, and Dean nodded. "Wonder what we did to piss off dad enough to send us here."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe he didn't want to put up with him either."

"Good ol' dad."

∞∞∞


	4. Chapter 4

∞∞∞

"Our loving ray of sunlight has already left three messages on my voicemail." Dean sat near the bottom of the staircase as Sam swayed around, dancing with his homemade EMF meter. In one hand was his cell phone, and in the other was a bag of assorted fun-sized candy bars he came across… hidden under a pile of junk mail in the drawer of an end table.

"Ron? He hasn't even been gone an hour yet." Sam slowly strolled through the kempt living room, his arm outstretched. His other hand kept the black earpiece securely lodged in his ear. The EMF meter had yet to make a noise, or light up, which made him wonder if it was on or broken, but it was never safe to openly question Dean's homemade doohickey.

"Tell me about it. Princess Peach said we're not permitted to use guns—not even the ones loaded with rock salt. God, I'd like to bust a cap right up his tight ass." Dean set down the phone next to him, and brought his attention to more important things, such as the bag of candy that screamed out for his sweet, hot mouth. Oh, my.

Sam made his way through the hallway and stopped in front of the stairway. "So he basically wants us to get rid of his ghost friend without touching anything, or using any weapons." He shrugged a shoulder, aiming the EMF meter above and around Dean. "Sounds reasonable… until the next message where he decides he wants us to do it from the front lawn."

"And step all over his precious daisies? Try from the middle of the street." A crinkling noise was heard as Dean peeled open a small candy bar, and popped it into his mouth. "You know, Sam, I really don't see how they can call these little shits fun-sized. Wouldn't it be more fun to eat, like, a foot long candy bar?" He asked his brother, talking through the melting chocolate.

"Very professional, Dean. Very professional." With a tired and defeated sigh, Sam took a seat besides Dean, the EMF meter resting in his lap. Wordlessly, Dean, without even as much as a glance, titled the bag of sweets towards him, and, with a shrug of hesitation, he slipped a hand in, locking a candy bar between his index and middle finger. "So, what's the plan, Sherlock?"

"We've scanned both floors, and nothing, so as far as I'm concerned, Watson, Ron can just up his freakin' meds." Suddenly, he got _that_ feeling, and felt something far back in his mind tug back—an emotion, a vibe, or maybe a thought? He glanced sideways at Sam, covering his confusion with a seemingly coy smirk. "Any objections?" He asked as Sam bit into his mini-chocolate bar, and paused mid-bite.

It took him several seconds to process this—shit, had he said something—_thought_ something wrong? He swallowed in a nervous gulp. "Um…" Crap, what had he been thinking about? Paper? No. Sam blinked, dumbfounded. "I just, er, _think_ we should give the house one more look over—Ron doesn't seem like the type to… lie." _Wait, yes he does_. He realized, the sweet chocolate unusually sour in his mouth.

"Yes he does." Dean echoed, and despite his words, he dropped the bag of candy between them, besides his cell phone, and reached up with his left hand, griping the banister. He put his weight against it, in hopes of not putting any strain on his chest, but something pulled as he got to his feet. He turned his face away from Sam, barely catching the wince in time. "Hand me the EMF, will you?"

"You're going to do it?" Sam asked, right as the sound of crashing was heard above them. Sam practically jolted onto his feet, nearly losing his footing. "Okay, so maybe I missed something." He stated, as another crashing sound was heard. Dean snapped out, "impatient fucker," as he pulled a gun out of thin air, or rather, from the inside of his jacket, in one quick, swift movement; no hesitation. "Ah, ah, ah, hey—no guns, remember?"

"Remember what?" The older brother innocently asked, brushing past him as he cautiously walked up the stairs. "Stay behind me, Shrek." He ordered, elbowing Sam in the ribs when he tried to pass him.

"I'm not the one—"

"But you are the one getting on my last nerve."

"You're unbelievable—"

"Quite! Now please tell me that's the EMF poking into my back." Snorting, Sam lightly shoved Dean's shoulder, but then he was like, 'oh, wait,' and looked down to notice that the bulbs on the device were flashing red. "Looks like we found our new friend, huh?" In response, the sound of breaking glass was heard in the nearest room.

"On the count of three." Sam began when they crept up to the door, one brother at either side. "One… hey!" Dean charged into the room, and froze when he saw a crystal kitten licking its paw hovering in the air. It dropped, and pieces scattered everywhere. The EMF meter went crazy, and then still. Sam, while mentally cursing at Dean, stepped in. "Oh, man."

"Yeah, _oh, man_—we're going to get blamed for this." The room was obviously a study—a desk, bookcases with the shelves lined with books, and, oddly enough, a shelf nailed to the wall where several glass animals sat. The ground was littered in broken glass, so it didn't take much to put two and two together.

"Ghost not an animal lover?"

"Maybe it's not a Ron lover." His comment made Sam smile as the younger male cautiously moved around the room, stepping around the glass while he heard it crunching under Dean's feet as he walked around, examining the shelf of animal sculptures. He watched unmoving as Dean picked up a dog one, and smiled down unassuming at it. "You know, when we were younger, I wanted a hunting dog, but dad said no."

"A _hunting_ dog, to, what, track down _demons_? Wouldn't he have just gotten in the way?"

"Yeah, so? We kept you around, didn't we?" He chuckled at the glare Sam shot at him. "Kidding, doofus. Anyway, dad said just about the same thing, and pissed my nine-year-old self off. I don't think I talked to him for, like, a whole mile and a half."

"How'd he make it up to you?" Sam wondered, amused by Dean's sudden story. Before the start of the era where he got into the big fights with John over college, their father would somehow do some unusual act to make Sam smile, to forget what had happened. It worked until puberty hit, but now, Dean just stared at him blankly.

"Make what up?" He asked, clearing his throat as he set down the dog that had stared at him longingly with its clear beady eyes. Sam joined him in clearing his throat, and changed the subject, and asked, "What do you think we're dealing with here?" Dean's lips tugged back. "Well, Sam, I'm no expert, but I would say we _might_ be dealing with a poltergeist."

"And you call _me_ the smart-ass."

"Hey, if the shoe fits…" Then, downstairs, the clanking noise of silverware being dumped out of its respective drawer onto the linoleum-clad ground was heard. "Sonofabitch! He _counted_ those!"

∞∞∞

"Judging by the way the ghost practically threw a tantrum—or twelve—after Ron left, I'd say it may have a crush." Sam joked later that day. Dean scoffed, parting his lips to speak, but paused. His brother waited patiently for the retort, but Dean ended up shrugging, like whatever, which made Sam grin. _Stumped you, hah_! Dean frowned, because apparently getting forked in the ass by a ghost makes a person cranky.

They had spent several houses at the two story colonial house. With three bedrooms, and two bathrooms, the brothers had figured it too big for one man, but Dean had stated that the man needed to store his attitude somewhere, and Sam tried not to chuckle while telling his brother to be nice. "First impressions are everything, Sam." Dean had wistfully replied.

It was now around dinner time, and neither Winchester was in the mood to deal with people, so they ordered Chinese take-out and ate at their new pick of a motel room—this room, thankfully, was bigger than the last. Now Sam actually had room to stretch out those long legs of his, and Dean had the comfort of knowing he didn't have to sleep with Sam breathing down his neck from the _other_ bed.

While Sam ripped open the paper bag containing their meal, Dean lazily fell back on the bed, using the remote—which was chained to the bed frame—to turn on the television. The local news was on, the first three stories all about deaths, whether they happened in a house fire, or a freak automobile accident involving a semi. Dean, without giving any explanation, shut off the television and they ate their dinner in silence.

"We don't get paid enough for what we do, never mind for maid service." Sam tried to break the ice—sure, the silence was comfortable, but there was this latent tension in the air. He was referring to the mess the rambunctious poltergeist had made… and that they had actually cleaned up. Dean put the pieces of Ron's smashed precious animal sculptures in a shoebox he found and labeled it, 'pet cemetery,' only he had used the misspelled form (Pet Sematary) of it, a la Stephen King.

"Like hell Ron is going to pay us anyway, dude—he's a friend of dad's, so he probably expects it as a favor." When Sam asked how the two men knew each other, Dean shrugged, opening a white carton of rice. "I would like to know what crawled up that man's ass, laid eggs, and then died, though, _woo_, really. You know he left another message for us?"

"What did he have to say?"

"Nothin' I can repeat in front of your virgin ears." Sam bit down hard on the piece of sweet and sour chicken in his mouth. Dean twirled the plastic fork into the block of rice, breaking it apart, his eyes never leaving the food. "Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch. They were basically empty threats, and more bogus rules, like not digging up any of his property, so I called him up and told him until he can book the Ghost Busters to let us do our job. Who you going to call?"

"Sam and Dean." Something still felt off to Sam, and it was starting to distract him. Dean's tone was lighter now, even friendlier, and sure, he didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but _why_? They had a rough day, what with the spastic ghost, the grumpy man, and you know what? Screw it. For once in the past few days, Sam felt more relaxed. He hadn't even thought about paper or books in quite some time!

"_Dean_ and Sam." Dean corrected with a murderous glance as he ripped open packets of soy sauce over his dry, bland rice. "_And_ we look good while doin' it, yeah, and without those tacky jumpsuits and damn vacuums stuck to our backs. Vacuums, heh. If only, huh?"

"Are you kidding me? I was _waiting_ for the day dad would come barging through the door with them. Didn't he ban us from watching that movie anyway, for the wrongful portrayal?"

"No, he banned us from watching the movie after you had recurring nightmares about the Stay-Puft marshmallow man, you little freak. He also banned us from the Child's Play movies when _someone_ was convinced that every doll was out to kill him." Dean cleared his throat, trying hard not to chuckle at the memories—particularly the one back when he found a doll with a cracked face and missing eye in the trash and decided to slip it into bed with a young Sam while he slept.

Sam picked up a pillow off his bed, and whipped it at Dean's head, but the older male easily blocked it without spilling any rice. "You've always been such a jerk, Dean. _Such a jerk_!" He played to be more upset than he actually was, because the smile on Dean's face made it worth it.

"Oh, and lets not forget the Candyman saga, oh _god_. You were so fucking convinced something was going to tear out of that medicine cabinet and kill you, dude, it was hilariously pathetic." For the week they stayed at the motel, in the early hours of the morning, Sam had Dean woken up Dean and made him wait outside the bathroom while he did his business _three_ times. John finally put a stop to it when he threatened Dean with staying home while he went on his hunts if he continued showing Sam scary movies behind his back. "_You_ were the reason dad always unhooked the cable box."

"Oh, sure, blame it all on me."

"Don't worry, I do."

"Lousy jerk."

"Gullible bitch."

Unexpectedly, something felt… on, even maybe… _right_.

∞∞∞

On the wall hung a picture—or rather, a framed painting, and it surely wasn't a Da Vinci or Van Gogh masterpiece. It was a medium sized piece of white canvas with a sleek black shadow-esque form painted on it. There was something about it that just gave Sam the creeps, thus he laid on his side, his back to it.

The bathroom light was on, which dimly lit up the room. He could make out the curve of Dean's back. The older male was lying sprawled out on his stomach, his face buried into the queen-sized pillow on the bed. He stirred in his sleep a few times—Sam guessed it was from the pain of lying on his wounded chest—and would smack his lips together, slightly arch his back, and shift his head from resting against one cheek to the other.

Gosh, why could he conk out easier on some nights than others? It drove him completely mad. His mind was now totally wired, he wasn't sure if it would ever just shut off. He thought about his last vision, and his utmost concern for Dean came rushing back. Feeling utterly restless, he turned over onto his back, and in order to keep himself from looking over at the spooky painting from the corner of his eye, he flung an arm across his eyes. He kept his eyes tightly closed under the crook of his elbow.

If only his tired mind would stay focused. One second he thought about Dean, and wanting to help him, and the next he was thinking about Jessica, and how he missed out on helping her. _Why did I keep such information from her_? He silently asked of himself, instantly thinking of Dean. _Why am I keeping information from Dean_? He hadn't even told Dean about his vision—his vision of _him_! Oh, fuck. Sam was less than a step away from tearing his hair out in frustrated clumps.

After much scattered thinking about his infected brother and dead girlfriend (_ex-girlfriend_?), John came swinging in, hitting the tree that is Sam's brain with much force. Oh, brother—_father_, even. There was a sore topic. The man that had angered him and annoyed him to no end was the man he wanted so badly to find. He was around thirteen when he started to question John, when arguments started to arise, and when the no ifs, ands, or buts rule was flushed down the toilet. But now, that stuff wasn't important, he wanted to find John, and end what was started twenty-two years ago.

But then what—what came next? Oh, no, no. Now was not the time to get into that. _Sleep, brain, just sleep_, Sam inwardly urged his brain. _Just shut off for a few hours, please_? He rolled back onto his side, pressing his palm into his forehead. He could just watch infomercials on mute, maybe with closed captioning on if any interest rose. Oh, yeah freaking right, who the hell was he kidding? He didn't want to watch television, especially not at—he picked up his watch off the nightstand with his free hand and nearly groaned—two A.M. How the hell was that possible? They hit the hay early, after dinner, and it sure as hell didn't felt like that much time had passed.

Jessica would sometimes make him tea when he couldn't sleep. Early in the morning, she'd boil water, get out some cookies, and they'd sit at the oval kitchen table. Sometimes she'd take his larger hand in hers while they waited, smoothing the pad of her thumb over his calloused knuckles in the most soothing way, and other times, they'd sit there, their fingers interlaced so perfectly. _Oh, Jessica_.

And then there was Dean, who would, though arguably, get up during the late hours of the night for him. During that Candyman scare, on the third and final night, after waking him up and having him wait while he used the bathroom, Dean had made him hot cocoa. It was snowing outside, and they sat next to the window, blowing on their hot drink, sipping it slowly, quiet as ever—as to not wake John, who did wake up, and wasn't happy to find out _why_ Sam needed to wake Dean up so he could use the bathroom. "I told you not to let him watch it!" John had snapped at the young Dean. Sam would always remember the way his thirteen-year-old brother flinched, like he expected John to hit him.

Anger boiled up in Sam's chest, causing him to be even more so awake. _Oh, man, I suck at life_. He rolled onto his stomach, his mouth pressed deeply into the pillow, which muffled his exhausted groan. That's when he heard the consistent shuffling next to him, and his head shot up. "Dean?" He asked while shifting up into a sitting position. He heard his brother exhale sharply, as if he were in pain. Anger faded, replaced distress. "Are you—?"

"Just… just shut up, _please_. Just stop it." Dean sounded breathless, and Sam stood up, turning on the lamp between their beds, but when he moved towards Dean, the blonde put a hand up, halting him. "No, no, no, no." He rattled off quickly. "Stay there, just stay _there_, 'cause I swear, dude, I _swear_…" He was now sitting up, one knee brought up to his chest.

"Dean! Just relax, calm down, all right?" Hell, Sam wasn't any fool. He put up his hands, knowing that Dean was a little out of it, and that he had a knife under his pillow, and those two things just don't mix. His face softened when he examined his brother, who pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand while rubbing his eyes with the other. His eyes were closed. "Oh, Dean. Dean, you're… you've… bruised." The skin around his hairline was lightly, although noticeably, bruised—fresh and ripe. "What the hell is the matter with you, man?"

Dean slowly opened an accusing eye. "You."

∞∞∞


	5. Chapter 5

∞∞∞

Dean immediately either flinched at his choice of words or the pain, Sam wasn't sure, but that hadn't stopped him from feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. "_Me_?" His eyes widened, the element of surprise missing, and he looked like a kicked puppy. At the same time, the brothers looked away from each other, like a sharp slap to the cheek, ashamed and guilty. "Right…" The brunette realized as he sat down at the edge of his bed. He pulled his pillow into his lap, and leaned forward with his forearms digging into the feather-filled cushion. "Of course it's me." Sam stated with a shaky breath, no malice or bitterness coated in his softly spoken words.

On the bright side, Dean found out where the weapons of mass destruction were—or rather, _what_ they were: Sam's pitiful puppy dog-esque doe eyes. "Oh, god, Sam, don't give me that right now, man." Dean asked of him with a grunt, furrowing his brow with a wince. "I didn't mean it like… I didn't… _shit_. I don't blame you, all right? Don't go thinking that, but you will, because you're _Sam_." He gestured Sam without as much as a glance as he let out a soft humorless chuckle. "It's this damn… this damn _thing_, Sam." Dean looked rather pensive, and his eyes were brighter than usual. "Not you."

"Then what the hell is all of this?" The younger brother wanted to know, his eyes finally falling on Dean. His gaze lingered on the new bruises, on the dark circles around, and the hefty bags under his eyes. He felt helpless and lost—he wanted so badly to make Dean's pain and suffering go away. Jesus Christ, how was he supposed to stop his train of thought? How was he supposed to not think so loudly? Sam's eyes began to tear up, although with much resistance.

Dean hadn't even blinked before he rattled off an answer. "Disney's newest amusement park ride. Crazy bastards. Not quite the attraction, huh? Needs a little work, and maybe—" Sam surged over from his bed, clapping a warm, clammy hand over Dean's mouth. "_What_?" His voice was muffled against his brother's palm. His eyebrows narrowed forward dangerously, and Dean had no problem biting Sam's hand if he didn't start to slowly back away. Sam, being psychic himself, was able to note this, and retracted his arm.

"Don't do this to me, Dean. Quit trying to cover up the truth with half-assed one-liners. I'm here." _For you_.

"Aw gee, that's really nice and all, Sammy, but honestly, a card would do just fine." Sam gaped at him in disbelief, and Dean shrugged a shoulder.

"Nice, real nice." The brunette remarked coldly. He practically stormed off to the bathroom—ah, the _bathroom_. A series of slamming door flashbacks flashed in Dean's mind. Where else to run off to when your brother pisses you off? The small room that reeked of cleaning solvents and urine, of course!

With a heavy sigh, Dean fell back, his head falling against the flat pillow. He stared up at the ceiling, noting the lack of pain that had gruesomely attacked his mind earlier. It had felt like scolding needles were tirelessly pricking his brain, one after another in quick jabs. Dean sighed again; a hand now rested upon his chest, his palm sprawled out against the burning abrasions. A frown toyed at his pouted lips, and he rolled onto his side as the door tentatively opened. _I'm sorry, Sam_.

∞∞∞

Dean grumpily wore a vicious scowl that would make Oscar the Grouch wave a white flag while he cowered in utmost fear in the deepest, darkest, farthest away spot in his grubby trashcan. Somehow, in just a few short hours, Sam went from the one in a bad mood to the one doing the sarcastic quipping, and Dean, ah, well, vice-versa to the _max_, man. Dean was suddenly a force not to be reckoned with.

After a light breakfast—a bag of chips and a bottle of soda for Dean, who shook his head when Sam asked him if he was up for breakfast, and, for Sam, two packages of powdered doughnuts and chocolate milk—they headed to Ron's perky palace of happiness. They really needed to get the job done, as Dean had earlier pointed out with a glower—"Chesty LaRue's due back Monday, and we're already on Saturday without any leads." Sam wordlessly nodded, ready to kick some… no, wait, _research_; ready to _research_.

The house's interior condition altered a bit since their last visit. Furniture was overturned. Shreds of paper and broken glass and ceramic bits littered the carpeted floor. Books were scattered everywhere, some opened, some closed, some with torn or missing pages. Wallpaper looked like it had been clawed at relentlessly. Black marker decorated a wall in the living room with thick, squiggly lines—there was even a shaky looking sad face drawn on a peach colored lampshade.

"Cute." Sam smirked down at the said lampshade, nudging the broken lamp with his foot. He stood in the living room, the EMF meter already out, just in case. "And utterly creepy. Ron's not going to be happy." Not that he ever was, really. By 'not going to be happy,' he meant, 'going to murder us… he's going to throw us in a hole in his basement, make us lather ourselves with lotion, and then he's going to wear our skin.' Yet another movie Dean let Sam watch.

"Right, so then you better get to cleaning, huh?" Dean stood in the doorway, shoulders tense under his t-shirt, arms tightly crossed. God, the man just looked like he'd rather be outside having a smoke, and he wasn't even a _smoker_. He was, however, a drinker, and did, in fact, look like he'd also rather be having a few beers.

"Oh, hell no, man, I am _not_…"

Dean waved his hand, already turning around. "I'll be upstairs." He shifted his shoulders, tossing his cell phone at Sam, who one-handedly caught it. "If Ron calls, and he will, tell him I died again. It was a beautiful funeral and everyone cried." He monotonously stated.

_Upstairs_? Sam arched a confused brow. _What's_—?

"_Computer_, genius. Someone has to research." Dean called out, out of sight as the floorboards squeaked as he made his way up the stairs. Sam made a face, but then vaguely remembered seeing a computer in Ron's study. This only asked for more questions, like, for starters, why couldn't Sam run to the car, grab the super duper laptop, and they could research _together_? Given their time limit, wouldn't that be helpful than Sam playing fucking _maid_? The creaking stopped, and Dean never answered.

∞∞∞

_Come on_… Dean silently begged, banging the mouse against the desk with impatience. _Deaths… homicides… suicides_… "_Something_." The twenty-seven year old was not at all picky, just any old heart-wrenching story would do. As long as he could dodge a few blunt objects, find some bones, salt them, burn them, and be out of the town by dinnertime, he'd be happy. But, of course, that would never be the case. Dean leaned forward on one elbow, scratching the back of his head. He even googled Ron, but that proved futile with too many results, none of which had what he was looking for.

Well, when all else has failed, you still have nosy neighbors. Keeping that in mind, Dean pushed back in the computer chair and away from the desk with a hard enough shove to wheel him over to the nearest window. He pressed down on his heels to stop, and stood up, his hand immediately finding and tugging down on the string to pull up the deep purple blinds. Dean peered outside through the glass, noting all the trees, and the neighboring houses.

What he noted the most was the old woman staring across the back lawn from him, through the second story window of her own house. She jumped back with a huff and closed the curtains when he had spotted her and waved. Nosy neighbors all right, probably wondering what two hot young men with fantastic hair, great tans, and awesome teeth were doing in a rude, mean old man's house.

His thoughts were all of a sudden interrupted by a blast of music—_I've got you… under my skin. I've got you… deep in the heart of me_. He stalked over to the door, pulled it open, and then peeked out. "What the hell, Sam?" He asked loudly right before he realized the music was coming from above him. So that was what heaven was like. Was his mullet rock stored in hell? He glanced down quickly, arching a brow in consideration. "_Sam_?" He moved forward out of the room as Sam came into view from downstairs, looking as clueless as he did.

"You know me, can't work a feather buster and broom without good ol' Sinatra playing in the background."

"Where's it coming from?"

Sam, with an oblivious grin, pointed up. "Above us." When Dean shot him a threatening '_why I ought to_…' look, he tried again, with the point and all. "Attic, perhaps?"

Dean easily recalled the construction of the house. "There isn't an attic."

"The roof, then. Frank Sinatra's ghost is singing on the roof." Sam maintained a somber expression for two point seven seconds before his lips tugged back into a wide, goofy grin. It dropped when Dean stared blankly at him, not amused. "'Though it is an oxymoron when a _ghost_ is listening to a song titled, 'I've Got You Under My Skin.'"

_Don't you know little fool… you never can win…_

"Yeah, the irony is just crippling, little brother." It's not _what_ you say; it's _how_ you say it, and Dean's insulting tone was no exception. Sam frowned, and asked him what the hell was his problem. His brother _almost_ seemed surprised at the question, but kept his eyes locked on the cracked ceiling. "Nothin' Sam, it's nothing… sorry." He said his mumbled apology like one would say _mayonnaise_—there was no feeling behind his words.

… _Use your mentality, wake up to reality…_

Sam nodded at Dean, and quickly glanced up at the ceiling before he broke out the elder Winchester's EMF meter. He had grown attached to the little fellow, and noted that it probably wouldn't be long before Dean finally realized Sam kept snatching it. Dean blinked twice before lowering his gaze from the ceiling… down to the EMF. He smirked, but didn't say anything, much to Sam's surprise.

And much to neither of their surprise, the EMF meter reacted as Sam pointed it up towards the ceiling, and he glanced down at Dean. "Recall ever dealing with a Frank Sinatra loving demon or poltergeist before?" And, oh dear, his heart nearly melted when Dean smiled.

"_Frank Sinatra_ loving? No. _Jackson Five_ loving? Unfortunately yes." He shuddered, but wistfully added, "The paranormal comes with many different playlists."

"That was deep, man. Real deep."

"_You_'re deep."

"Nice one. You totally burned me." Sam hissed in mocked pain, grabbing his arm like he'd been burned by something incredibly hot… like his brother.

"Oh, shut up."

… _'Cause I've got you under my skin… _

∞∞∞

"Well, at least Dean _started_ to get in a better mood." Sam mused aloud, grunting as he lifted the couch upright. He was back downstairs, and finished vacuuming—he drew the line at any mopping—minutes earlier. The tension between the brothers had lifted, but as the Sinatra music died down, Dean's mood pummeled. He told Sam he was going to go interrogate the neighbors, and had rejected Sam's offer to tag along three times before the younger brother could even verbally object.

The living room was looking back to normal, save the shredded wallpaper that was also drawn on. Yeah, there was no way in hell Sam was going to scrub that shit off. He figured Ron could take the money he wasn't going to pay them with and buy some paint. After all, a paintjob was desperately needed—the paint matched the frowning lampshade in the peach color. It wasn't like a man's house at all, well, a man—_brute_—like Ron. There was almost a feminine touch to it… Sam shrugged off the thought. Maybe Ron was gay.

Yawning, with his arms stretched out over his head, Sam flopped down on the couch, arching his back enough so that it would crack. He rested his head back, and closed his eyes, just for a few seconds though, he tiredly reasoned, allowing himself to sink into the deep, soft cushions of the comfortable sofa. Sleep sounded like just a great idea, but no, he couldn't, not now, and silently promised that he was just resting his eyes.

Across from him was an old fireplace that was closed off with bricks. On the mantel, however, innocently laid a near empty carton of cigarettes and a lighter. The said lighter twitched once, and then twice. It barely made a sound as it slid off the mantel and floated into the air. It danced over to the window, stopping just as it touched the purple curtains that were tied together, shutting out any light. It flicked once, but nothing.

Sam scrunched up his nose.

It flicked twice, but nothing.

Sam scratched at the back of his ear.

It flicked twice, and fire ignited. The hot flame swayed against the thick material of the curtains, and spread.

Sam opened an eye.

∞∞∞

Dean causally strolled around the block to get to the house behind Ron's. He paused when he found it, looking it over. Bushes, just under his own height, were lined up directly in front of the porch, giving it a shady feeling. All windows were closed with the blinds down. He took a step forward, and a cat ran out from between two hedges. He jumped slightly, cursing at it, and then looked around before he coolly brushed something invisible off his elbow and moved forward up the stairs.

There sat a crate at the top of the stairs, a dirty rag thrown over the side. Inside were a small, old fire extinguisher, a sticky bottle of antifreeze, an empty bottle of oil, and several miscellaneous objects. If it weren't for the fact Dean nearly tripped over the crate, he wouldn't have noticed it, but his eyes lingered on it as he moved forward, hitting his head against a wind chime. He whipped around; glaring at it like it grabbed his ass. "_Shh_!"

The porch was shaped like an L, with the front door behind located at the longest end. He slowly turned the corner, briefly wondering why he was moving so suspiciously during the daylight, especially when he wasn't even breaking in, but before he could even shrug in response, a cane flew out of nowhere and connected with his hip.

"_Sonofa_—"

"Oh boy, you picked the wrong lady to mess with! If you think you can waltz into my home and rob me blind, oh, you have another thing comin'!" An elderly woman, who was about half his size, stood in front of him, breathless. Her white hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore glasses—another typical evil senior citizen. "It's always the pretty ones too, but I ain't fooled, boy, oh, no, I ain't. You better get going."

"Jesus, what bong water have you been threading in? Cool it, Grandma, I'm—" The woman, with a snarl, raised her cane at him, and he backed away slowly, both hands up in the air. _Damn, should have sent Sam. She would have taken one look at him and invited him in for milk and cookies_. "I'm just here to ask a few questions, not to _rob_ you, geesh. Don't be so flattered."

"Do I look like I was born yesterday?" Her eyes widened and twitched up at him.

"No, you look like you were born during Washington's term, you—_ow_!" She now smacked him in the arm with her wooden cane, and threatened to call the police.

"I need to ask you questions about the house in back of you, but never mind, I'd rather drink bleach. And call the psychiatric ward while you're at it, freakin' crazy-ass hag." Gosh, he did not have to put up with this shit. Screw the ghost, screw Ron, screw this woman, and, really, just screw _everyone_. The stranger impatiently tapped her cane as Dean stalked away, mumbling obscenities under his breath.

_Betty loved her Sinatra_.

He nearly lost his footing, and had to grasp the wooden railing to keep from stumbling down the porch stairs. He glanced behind his shoulder, wetting his lips. "What can you tell me about a previous owner and--?"

"I told you to get! You have some nerve—"

"Frank Sinatra?" The woman's wrinkled face softened. "You heard it, didn't you?"

∞∞∞

Sam's eyes lifted up, and to the right, quickly flashed to the left, and then down. He smelled the smoke, heard the fire cackling, and jumped to his feet. Why now? Why him? _Oh, shit_. The curtains burned quickly, and Sam's breath caught in his throat as he looked around for something. There was a water-filled vase with withering roses sitting besides the television that he had forgotten to pick up, but he did now, and tore out the flowers before splashing the contents at the fire in front of him. Yeah, that didn't exactly help at all, and he threw the ceramic vase at the flaming curtains, disgruntled. "Come on!" He snapped, his pulse racing. He pulled awkwardly at his long dark locks with on hand while he used the other to take out the cell phone from his pocket. He'd have to call the fire department unless he could put out the fire with his tears.

Dean came rushing in carrying a small fire extinguisher as Sam pressed the 'one' key on the phone. His eyes shot up to the ceiling before the fiery mass of what used to be curtains, and he bit down on his lower lip and his eye seemed to twitch as he put out the fire. Once it was out for good, he still held the extinguisher ready and aimed, like he expected the flames to flare up again, but after half a minute, he tossed it onto the couch behind him. Dean looked down at the vase that lied at Sam's feet, the pile of dead roses, and then up at him with a brow cocked inquiringly as Sam shuffled his feet. The only noise heard was the blaring of the smoke detector, which acted up _after_ Dean came to the rescue.

"Where'd you, um, get one of… those?" Sam asked, imitating squeezing something with his right hand while looking pointedly at the couch.

"Grabbed it off the neighbor's porch after I heard you shrieking like a _girl_."

"I did not shriek!" Dean smirked, tapping his right temple. Sam crossed his arms, and looked away with a sharp _humph_ sound.

"Say, Beanstalk, you want to do something about that—" But before he could finish his sentence, the fire detector went silent, and Dean's lips quirked into a humorless smile. "Thanks." He took a few steps forward before he waved his hand in front of his face, scanning the damage—the curtains were toast—literally—and the white wood paneling and even some of the wall area around the window was scorched. "Just freakin' lovely."

∞∞∞


	6. Chapter 6

∞∞∞

"You got beat up by an old lady?"

"I did _not_—"

"You got beat up by an old lady!" Sam couldn't find a smile to match his lighthearted tone. Dean had already been looking a bit rough around the edges, and now he donned a new bruise on his hip. "What the hell did she do that with?" He asked after his brother hesitantly lifted up the hem of his button down shirt.

The older male cleared his throat, averting his gaze up and around; an eye roll. "A, er, cane. And not the mint candy kind." He tried for a smile; failed, and shrugged. Dean's full lips suddenly pouted a little, as if he were offended. "I _did_ get some information from her."

Sam silently apologized to his brother, because there were too many jokes that could be had with this one. "Really? What did you have to do for that? Hold her up at knifepoint?" Wearing a smirk, Dean lightly shoved his shoulder. Apparently getting smacked around by little old women puts grumpy people in better moods.

"No, but it was actually helpful when I…" He trailed off, making a face. The brunette gestured for him to continue, mouthing the words, '_when you_…?' "When I read her mind." Sam's face deadpanned. His arms dropped limply to his sides.

"Read _her_ mind? I thought you could only… with _me_!" He pointed his thumb to his chest, and stuck out his jaw with a huff. This changed things ("confused" to "_more_ confused"), but, Sam realized, made slightly more sense; _it wasn't just me he was hearing in the vision_.

Dean's mouth hesitantly opened, but then closed. He tried again, and asked with uncertainty, "the vision?" He looked down, absently sliding his tongue over his top set of teeth as he tried to remember any earlier discussions of any vision. "What vision?" When his brother hadn't answered, he asked, his voice unusually even, "Did you have a vision, Sam?"

Sam felt much like he was a child and just admitted it _was_ him who stole the cookie from the cookie jar. He thought of ways he could answer; the truth, a lie, a white lie, but when his eyes met Dean's, he knew the shorter male already knew the answer. He knew not because he could read his mind, but because Sam's guilt ridden eyes betrayed him.

"What the hell? Why didn't you tell me?"

Sam stood staring down at the ground, his shoulders slightly hunched, his hands shoved into the shallow pockets of his jeans. He shrugged a shoulder. "_You_'re the telepath."

Dean's eyebrows rose. A look of hurt flickered in his eyes, but was quickly replaced with anger. He scoffed, sarcastically thanking his brother, and sharply added, in the same breath, "and _you_'re the visionary."

The brunette frowned. _And a horrible one at that_, he bitterly thought. "You think I should have seen this coming." It wasn't a question. Blame had been laced within Dean's earlier words, Sam was sure of it, but who was it directed at? _Who else?_

"No, I think you're being a smug little fuck." Dean was giving him _that_ look. The look that just stared right through him; the look that sent a shiver down his make, the look that made him feel almost invulnerable. Dean noticed how uncomfortable Sam had gotten, and smirked. "Just don't ever use those "'cause you're the telepath'" cards ever again, or I swear I'll kick your ass."

"But you _should_ know when—"

"And you _should_ see my foot—"

_… I've got you under my skin… I've got you deep in the heart of me… _

Two sets of eyes shot up to the ceiling. Dean cursed, muttering that they needed to find this "Sinatra loving, home-wrecking pyromaniac" _now_. Sam merely snickered, mouthing the words as the song continued, playing over and over again.

_… So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me… I've got you under my skin… _

∞∞∞

Dean was right about the old woman taking to Sam. It wasn't surprising, really. Sam worked better with adults, while Dean, oddly enough, was the one with the gift of communicating with children.

The elderly—whose name was Fran—smiled warmly at Sam's polite introduction. She didn't attack him with her cane, spit at him, or accuse him of being a thief. She invited him in, just like Dean had figured. _I really am a psychic_.

While Sam and Fran swapped stories over cookies and milk, Dean walked around the haunted house, his hands clasped behind his back. The music was still playing, so he hummed some of his favorite tunes.

The line, "I've got you under my skin," suddenly skipped, and played repeatedly, overlapping itself. After several seconds, Dean yelled out, "enough! I get it, I get it, Jesus, _Betty_." A light flickered, and the music stopped repeating, and played on smoothly.

"Could you at least play a different song?" He tried, and there was a long pause before the music stopped. A few beats later, Sinatra was heard singing, '_unforgettable… that's what you are…_' Dean heavily sighed, defeated. "Whatever, man, whatever."

He had mostly only learned from Fran that a woman named Betty used to live in the house, and she loved Frank. He received a sad, depressing vibe from the woman though; there was more, thus Sam was sent over, without Dean in tow, obviously.

Dean touched his bruised hip. _Crazy bitch_. His hand slipped up his abdomen, and rested over his heart. He rubbed gently over the still infected scratches on his chest in a circular motion. While it hurt, it felt nice, almost soothing for the constant itch.

Ron called while he poked at the shredded wallpaper in the living room. His thumb lingered over the button to ignore the call, but he sighed, and accepted. "You have reached Dean Winchester, but he's dead and can't answer right now, so leave a—"

"You're getting on my nerves."

Dean was uncaring. "And you know what's getting on my nerves?" He lifted the phone up, waited a few minutes, and then brought it back to his ear. "I can only take so much Sinatra."

"You've got a problem with Frank Sinatra?" Ron's tone was cold, which wasn't new, but there was a new, daring edge to it that made Dean mumble an incoherent answer. "That's what I thought, little fool." Dean groaned; time for a subject change.

"I _do_ have some devastating news about your unfortunately purple curtains…"

"_Purple_? They're _mauve_!"

"Dude, they were purple."

**∞∞∞ **

Fran turned out to be a very nice woman. She used her cane only to aid her walking, although she did use it once to push the sugar across the table to Sam. He forced a smile, warily glancing at the cane as he inattentively stirred his tea.

"You're much nicer than that other man." Fran admitted after Sam fed her the right lies. "Is he your boyfriend?" Sam, who had just taken a sip from his cup of tea, choked. "What, you kids using different words for it these days? I can't be damned to keep up."

"No, no, we're, uh, brothers, despite popular belief." He set down the tea, enough of that. "Speaking of my _brother_, Dean, I apologize for his behavior. He's, ah, always been like that, so it's not a recent development, but he means well."

The old woman wasn't convinced, but nodded. "Now, what is it you want to know about Betty? Such a wonderful woman she was. Lived in that house for over twenty years, don't you know." She lifted up her cup of tea but didn't drink from it.

"How'd she die?" Sam asked bluntly, dropping a cube of sugar into his tea. He had turned down her offer of tea when he came in, but she had poured him some anyway. There was a plate of vanilla wafers in front of him that Dean would probably be eating if he were here.

"Oh, that gal died of a broken heart—no close relatives, no children, it was sad, but she always wore a smile." Fran chuckled, staring down distantly into her tea. "Oh, that Betty. She had a fiancée, seemed like a good guy, but I saw them fighting a lot."

"Saw them?"

She looked at him like he had just accused her of being a nosy neighbor™. "They left their blinds open a lot! For the whole world to see too! During her last year alive, she put up curtains, and kept them closed."

"So, a broken heart, huh? That's not usually the cause of death on autopsy reports." Apparently Sam must have been channeling Dean there, because Fran frowned, and told him that he sounded just like his _brother_. "Sorry."

Fran never went on to explain how Betty had died, although she did go on about how the woman's fiancée left her. "It was just another day! He left for work, but didn't come home. He waited about two weeks before he came back to get his stuff."

"And what did she do?"

"She threw out most of his stuff—his clothes, his shoes. She broke anything that could be broken, and just tossed it into a plastic bag and threw it away. He didn't get anything back, in one piece anyway."

"So, she went crazy?"

"Crazy? He broke her heart! Her actions were completely _justified_. Don't you ever run out on a girl like that, Sammy. It'll kill her." She finally took a long sip from her drink after blowing on it even though it wasn't steaming hot.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair, and set down the white ceramic cup. He swallowed hard, and murmured, "Sam, it's Sam." He blinked rapidly a few times, his vision blurry. He was exhausted. "When, um, when did Betty die?"

Fran eyed him suspiciously, but answered after thinking about it for a few seconds. "Oh, about ten years ago, maybe longer. It's been a while." She paused thoughtfully, taking another mouthful of tea. "So, I see you found her old records."

Sam went along with it, and nodded, smiling. "Yeah, Dean's a real huge Sinatra fan." And then, not five seconds later came the sounds of Metallica, blaring from Ron's house.

**∞∞∞**

"So, all we know about Betty is that she was a crazy woman who died of a broken heart?" By now, it was after suppertime, and the boys were back at their motel room, eating tacos. "How anticlimactic." Dean admitted through a mouthful of food.

Sam, who hadn't wanted tacos, lay back on his bed. He rolled his eyes. "Sorry it's not interesting enough for you." He turned onto his side. "Maybe it was suicide? We just have to find out the why, and this might be over."

"It won't be over until I get my cell number changed. I argued with Ron over freakin' colors for a _half hour_, dude. I don't want to get a call from him ever again."

"_Colors_? Aw, why, does Ron make Dean question his sexuality?" With a string of lettuce hanging from between his compressed lips, Dean slowly turned his head, giving his brother a murderous look. Sam broke out into a bout of laughter.

"I don't think I'll ever understand what goes on in that empty head of yours, Sammy." Dean polished off his taco—and what Sam hadn't finished of his own—and pushed the wrappers off the bed into the plastic gray trashcan besides the bed.

"Want to?" Sam pushed himself off the bed, and sat down next to Dean, who moved back, a brow arched inquisitively. "I've been doing some thinking, and I want to try something…"

"I'm flattered, Sam, really, but no, why don't you try practicing on the back of your hand?" Sam unexpectedly reached forward, grabbing both of Dean's hands. He wrapped his long fingers around his brother's wrists. "I said _your_ hand!"

"Just…" Sam shrugged. _Calm down? Listen to me? Shut up_? Maybe even all of the above? He brought Dean's hands to his head, and pressed a palm to either side, above his ears.

"I think my hands are supposed to go on your hips, dork." Dean really, really tried to joke, but he winced, suddenly… cold, and then very warm. A muscle flexed in his chest, and the abrasions burned. His jaw tightened. "Ah, Sam…"

"Get inside my head, Dean. Get it done and over with, because I'm never going to offer this again." He smiled widely, his white teeth glowing in the dimness of the room. Dean tried to jerk his hands away, but Sam kept his own locked tightly over Dean's.

"I don't know what you want me to do, Sam, but could you try not to sound like you're offering me your virginity?" For once, it was Sam who was making Dean uncomfortable. What was this loon getting at? Oy, they really need that vacation.

_You jerk; I'm not a virgin_.

"But you were living in sin." Sam laughed at the irony, and Dean jumped slightly when he realized that he was _hearing Sam inside of his head_. It was just weird, creepy, and rather unnatural, to have your little brother in your head.

But Sam wasn't in _his_ head—he was in Sam's. He closed his eyes, and concentrated. Sam asked him how it felt, and he smiled. "Just as I said—_empty_." But he was lying; it didn't feel empty. It felt the opposite of that—_full_, congested.

Thoughts! So many thoughts, so many ideas, so many words, so much Sam—too much Sam. He could not only hear his brother's thoughts, but he could _feel_ emotions, he could _see_ memories.

It was different than with other people. He may have caught a thought, but… it was just different with Sam—he felt… he felt everything. And everything really fucking hurt.

"_Enough_." Dean managed to hiss out. His head throbbed in strong waves of pain that made every fiber in his being ache. Sam immediately dropped his hands like hot potatoes and jumped to his feet, apologizing.

"Are you all right? Oh, my god, Dean, I didn't mean—I just wanted to see—oh, god, I'm so sorry, Dean, I'm—" Biting back remarks, Dean shoved at Sam when he grabbed his shoulder. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the hurt look in his brother's eyes, but it didn't matter; he felt it anyway. "Dean?"

Dean opened one eye—kept the other closed. "Who… who are you?" He cleared his throat, and cocked his head to the side, peering up at the younger Winchester.

Sam's eyes widened, and his stomach flopped. "Oh… oh, god." Sam whispered, his hands trembling. He was left speechless, and could only sputter out curses. But then Dean cracked a smile, and he let out a long breath of air while shaking his head. "You jerk! You big, stupid jerk."

"'K, fair enough, but I'm a big, stupid jerk in need of aspirin. A lot of it too—enough to make this damn headache to back the fuck off." Sam disappeared into the bathroom, but came back empty handed. He told Dean that he'd be right back, that there was more aspirin in the car, and Dean just waved at him with one hand, telling him to just go already.

"I did this, didn't I?" Well, duh, it was your idea, Sam, but that wasn't what he meant. Dean shook his head, swearing that it wasn't, that it was just this stupid power, and to just get the freaking drugs already. Sam hurried off, and once he was out the door, Dean fell back, closing his eyes, whispering, "It's not you, not you…" He slowly opened his eyes.

_I'm a liar_.

But he could handle this—he really could, and he would. Hopefully without Sam, 'cause, holy shit, did that boy ever think so freakin' loudly. _He means well_, Dean silently figured, feeling some déjà vu creeping up on him. He wonders what it would be like if their roles were reversed, and reasoned that he'd probably hit Sam if he ever tried to intrude on his personal thoughts.

His cell phone went off, and he told himself not to answer it. He mumbled a loud not to answer it. He was not going to answer that phone. Oh, hell, yes he was, and he answered it with a grunted, "_what_?"

There was a pause on the other line. "Sammy?" It was a woman. Her voice hadn't rung a bell yet.

Dean considered his options, and shrugged. "Maybe."

"No." The voice suddenly barked. "Put Sammy on the phone." Ah, Fran.

Sam walked back into the room, holding an industrial size bottle of generic aspirin. "Ron?" He mouthed to an unhappy looking Dean.

"One of Santa's little helpers." He turned his attention back over to Fran, rubbing his forehead. "All right, what do you want?" _And how the hell did you get my number?_ The older woman repeated Sam's nickname, which sort of angered him. "Yeah, I got that, but I'm not really into passing love notes, Frannie."

Sam dropped the bottle next to Dean on the bed, and took the phone from him, mumbling he gave Fran his number in case anything came up.

"_My_ number?"

Sam cupped his hand over the length of the small phone. "Yeah, well, after you wrote, 'want a good time? Call Sam,' in a bathroom stall at—"

"Dude, I did no such thing!" Ow, okay, and talking? Was starting to hurt. He let Sam talk to his new girlfriend, and he retired to the sacred bathroom. He popped a few pills dry, and sat down on the toilet after he put down the lid. Before he could even process thinking '_goddamn, I'm so fucking tired_,' Sam tapped at the door.

"We need to get back to Ron's house, _now_." _I can go alone…_

"No, no, I'm coming. Just give me…"

"Fran said the music's back, and much louder. She also said there's crashing…" _Stay, you need to rest_…

"I said just give me a minute!"

"It's time we just stopped tiptoeing around; we need to find her body." _Dean's getting worse_… "Salt and burn."

Burn.

There's the sound of a kettle going off.

_Burn_.

His face feels flushed; he can feel the steam.

Crash and burn.

He was back at Sam's old apartment with Jessica pushed up against him; trailing butterfly kisses down his cheek. Dean slapped a hand to his cheek. There was no way Sam was thinking about Jessica right now—the guy didn't have a one-track mind, did he? No, no, this had to be something else, just had to be…

The pills left a chalky taste that lingered in his dry mouth. Dean stood up, and took a step over to the sink, where he turned on the water full blast.

_Dean_! Sam pounded on the door.

He splashed the cool water on his face, pointing a finger at the door, one minute, Sammy, one minute. He quickly dried his face off with a hand towel, and causally opens the door.

"We better get going, huh?" But Sam has had enough. He grabbed his brother's shoulder, turning him around to face him. "Something wrong, Sam?" For a split second, he saw a flash of Jessica, burning on the ceiling, and rapidly blinks the image away, paling.

"What's going on with you, man?" Sam pleaded to know, concerned, worried, and fed up.

"Well, you see, a few nights ago, I got in a little fight with this demon—put on a real good show too, glowing eyes, and—oh, you know those details."

"I fail to see the humor in this."

"Yeah, and that? Doesn't really surprise me. But, you see, I may have caught something from this demon—"

Sam eyed him suspiciously. "Like a disease?" He only played along, knowing that it would be the only way to get Dean to spill what he thought. He wasn't, after all, a telepath. "You think you caught a disease?" _Dean has something_. Something was stressed, like an echo.

"Oh, Sam, you're right—I have many communicable diseases. I wouldn't want you to catch svelte, charisma, or charm." He smiled, and for some reason, it comforted Sam, who finally relaxed.

"You don't make any sense. You're like a random word organizer, you know that?"

A bullet grazed the tension, maybe even lifted it for a while, but things could only go uphill now, right? Whatever. The brothers left, exchanging a few more lighthearted words, but it was all a mask, a cover up, and each one knew it.

**∞∞∞**

Sam drove to the house. He kept one eye on the road, and the other on Dean. Dean felt the one-eyed stare, but kept his gaze fixed outside the window, on the passing land. He kept one hand on the handle, and Sam wondered if Dean planned on jumping out.

"I remember when you were… eight, and we were driving down the highway after a hunt. You were tired, and leaned against the door in the backseat, but the door wasn't closed all the way, and opened." Dean's gravelly voice pierced the air.

Sam nodded, and felt the hairs on his arms stick up. "Yeah, and I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. I remember leaning out, screaming, and seeing the dark pavement as a blur."

Now it was Dean's turn to nod. "I pulled you back in." He shifted, but kept staring out the window. "Before we left, I called shotgun, but you bitched I always got to ride next to dad."

"I believe I used the words, 'always got to ride _upfront_.'"

The older male ignored him. "So dad made me sit in the back with you." And now he looked over at Sam, who met his eyes halfway. "If I hadn't been in the backseat with you…" But Sam looked straight on, and chewed on a nail.

"I was seven, not eight." When Dean hadn't answered, he turned his head, wondering if he might have pissed him off, but Dean just smiled faintly.

"I know."

Sam knew something was up, and asked about it, but Dean merely shrugged a shoulder.

"Just testing things out."

Yeah, that sounded innocent. No need to worry over a statement like that…

Sam chewed on the fingernail harder, more aggressively.

**∞∞∞**


	7. Chapter 7

∞∞∞

"Where the hell is that music coming from?" The music was louder than before; Sinatra's smooth voice echoed off the walls, and vibrations tickled the floor. Sam's question was answered when an axe was shoved into his large hands. He gripped the handle tightly, knuckles white, and stared down at the weapon wistfully before shaking his head, his long, dark fringes swaying in front of his eyes. "No—no, Dean, _no_." Ron had clearly voiced his disproval of weapons being used in his house, and Sam was not about to put holes in the guy's walls. Even though the man only went up to, like, his waist, he was rather intimidating.

Dean, however, was already charging up the pathway to the house, swinging his axe almost merrily. Without even glancing behind his shoulder, he impatiently waved a hand at his brother. "I've got things to see, people to do, Sam. We don't have time to tiptoe around with Sockem Boppers." Still walking, he turned around, now twirling the perfectly sharpened axe in his right hand. "What are you waiting for?" It was inevitable that Dean would do this with or without his brother, however, Sam, who stubbornly kicked at a dirt clod, continued to stand there tentatively.

"It's a phonograph." Sam stated evenly, now studying the house from the sidewalk. His eyes slowly went from one window to the next, as if he were looking for something. "The last owner—that's what she played the music with; like a record player."

Dean had stopped walking, the axe now still in his grasp. A defensive frown that screamed, "dude, I'm not an idiot," twitched at his full lips. "I know what a phonograph is."

"Sorry! Forgive me for doubting your _phonographic_ knowledge." The brunette stifled a laugh as he walked forward, stopping just as he reached Dean. Their shoulders brushed together. "At least we know what we're looking for—and don't blindly toss that thing around, okay? The less damage the better."

Dean grunted. "I've heard that before."

The rustling of bushes was heard before Fran came limping out, frowning at the two young men disapprovingly. "It's only a matter of time before someone calls the cops, and you two are out here holding hands and _talking_?" A twig stuck out of her disheveled hair, and she squinted at them before exclaiming, "_swords_? You've got swords!"

Sam lamely uttered out, "we're not holding _hands_," while Dean shrugged indifferently, "axes, not swords. _Axes_." He made a point to demonstrate by pretending he was cutting wood, whilst Sam explained, "we think Betty's old phonograph is hidden behind a wall or something, so…" and gestured at Dean, who was still heartily chopping the invisible wood.

Fran, who stared at them blankly, muttered an "okay," and backed away. She warned them to "hurry up," because the people on the block were "cranky and nosy," and then she hobbled off behind the bush she came from. The brothers exchanged a "huh" look before moving on up the stairs.

"Do you hear that?" The taller brother asked over the music once they stumbled inside. The rug in the living room had been moved in front of the door, the corner messily turned up. So far, other than that, nothing seemed out of place, which was just swell, because it would be a cold day in hell where pigs flew high in the sky when Sam cleaned up again.

"Hear what?" Sam shot him an ironic look. Dean pointed the axe at him with a shrug. "What? I can barely hear myself think, never mind what you're _over_ thinking about."

"No, no—_listen_." With his free arm stretched out, he rotated his wrist, his fingers stretched out. "Don't you… don't you hear it—Dean, it's—"

"A dying cat… screeching?" Dean lamely tried, straining to hear beyond the music, and when he did, he heard—

"A woman crying—_sobbing_. She… she sounds heartbroken." Sam set down his weapon on the table besides the door. Dean gaped at him like he just stepped on his favorite Metallica tape, an act that could easily be considered a heinous felony.

"Dude, no, no—_no_; we don't have time for a psych evaluation here." But then Sam looked at him with wide eyes, and Dean averted his powerful gaze, swearing a blue streak under his breath as he started to make his way upstairs.

"Dean, stop!" Fingers wrapped around Dean's elbow, another hand to his shoulder; the palm dug into his shoulder blade. "We can wait this one out. It probably won't be much longer, Fran said—"

"Sam, Betty was _cremated_—we're finding this phonograph and _burning_ the hell out of it."

"_No_! You're being unreasonable."

"And you're being a compassionate idiot." He jerked his arm out of and his shoulder from under his brother's grasp, and continued up the stairs. He half expected Sam to let out a mighty roar and jump on his back, but Sammy wasn't possessed, or even tipsy—he was, as Dean previously stated, a compassionate idiot.

"I just understand… that's all." The music became clearer as Dean stomped down the hallway, briefly wondering if he would get to put the axe through a door, a la Jack Torrance. Sam voice, as softly as he had spoken, sliced through Sinatra's voice like a knife through butter. Hell, he heard it so well he even wondered if he _had_ heard it—_in his head_.

"What's your problem? Christ, is it just some kind of unwritten rule that you must angst your oversized heart out about _everything_?" The weeping got significantly louder as Dean neared the end of the hallway.

"She just sounds so _sad_."

"She toasted the mauve curtains, of course she's sad."

"Mauve? I thought they were purple."

"In two seconds I'm going to _mauve_ you in the _purple_." Still clutching the axe in one hand, Dean took out his EMF meter, which had started beeping once he reached upstairs, and he kissed it before holding it out. He looked for the strongest signal, furrowing his brow deep in thought as his eyes continuously flickering between the wall and the homemade doodad.

Sam leaned against the wall, arms folded against his chest. "Something doesn't feel right." The sound of the high pitched crying made him feel sick with sorrow. He knew what it was like to lose a loved one, even if the circumstances were different. He noticed when Dean rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, and frowned. "What?"

… _I would sacrifice anything come what might… _

_For the sake of having you near…_

"Nothin'."

… _In spite of the warning voice that comes in the night… _

"Yeah, right."

… _And repeats how it yells in my ear… _

_Don't you know, little fool… _

_You never can win… _

A shrill beeping noise was heard, muffled as it found its way into a pocket. "Found it."

… _But each time I do just the thought of you_

_Makes me stop just before I begin_…

Sam closed his eyes as the music continued—as the crying continued—and as the sound of sharp metal striking plaster cut through all the noise. He flinched at each blow to the wall, feeling guilt. _Oh, Jess_… He had been the one to walk out on her. Without _him_, she had, quite literally, crashed and burned.

… _'Cause I've got you_—

And then, just like that, in the snap of a finger, the music stopped, and the weeping stopped. All he heard was Dean's heavy breathing, and the sound of the axe carelessly being thrown aside. He listened as Dean, after a little struggling, pulled the phonograph out of the wall and set it down on the floor.

"Huh." Sam's eyes opened, watching as Dean swiped his finger along the side of the phonograph, leaving a clear line through the dust in its wake. "There's no record—" The older brother pointed out, looking the old phonograph over. He scrunched his lips up, glancing up at Sam. "It's broken."

"It did sound like it was coming from above us." Sam tried, now leaning forward, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. The blonde shook his head.

"Don't know… sounded more like it was coming from… everywhere." He shrugged, uncertainty twinkling in his confused green eyes. "At least it stopped."

Sam, ever the optimistic one, retorted with a disbelieving scoff. "Yeah, for now. But how'd it get in the wall?" Simultaneously, their eyes trailed over to the dark hole that effaced the white wall. "What do you think?"

Dean, while threading a free hand through his short hair, sighed, and basically responded that he was sick of this inane shit. "Lets go."

"What? We still haven't fully investigated—Fran heard _crashing_, remember? And I thought you wanted to burn _this_." He put emphasis on the last word as he nudged the old record player with his foot.

However, Dean was beyond exhausted. Hell, it would take a twelve-foot ladder for him just to reach the exhausted line. The headache that had formed wasn't helping either. Now that the music was gone, he could _feel_, never mind hear, Sam's curious mind that mentally prodded him, that nitpicked and argued through the thick bushes of confusion.

_He's not making any sense_. Sam's thoughts attacked. Dean swallowed, curling his lip to keep him from flinching. _Something isn't right with him_. Sam blinked, clearing his throat uncomfortably when Dean had locked eye contact with him, and made him feel like he could see right through him. _I'm transparent; he can open me up and read me like a book, he… Stop. _

"Stop what?" The words left his mouth before he could stop them. His headache worsened, but something felt almost off about the pain. Yeah, sure, it still hurt like holy fucking hell, but there was something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on. One thing he noticed was that this… _ability_… that ailed him had advanced.

Dean had noticed the progress of the situation earlier, when he could sort through memories in his brother's head. It wasn't like a catalogue—he couldn't just flip through any random moment—it had to be something Sam recently brought back to the surface of his subconscious, whether it was intentional or not; it didn't take much to made old memories rise.

It was all still an invasion of privacy, and it all made Sam feel very, very vulnerable. He fought to push the vulnerability back, and replaced it with a touch of anger; enough to let Dean know he was serious, that he should back down, try to control it. "Stay," the younger brother warned, jabbing his index finger into Dean's shoulder, "out of my mind, okay?" The word 'okay' echoed, the one getting drawn out, the last syllable lacing repeatedly with the first. Dean had to shake his head to get it to stop, and rapidly blinked.

The older Winchester would not let this break him. He brushed it off, forcing a smirk so harshly he felt like his cheeks cracked open against the strain. "What, first you offer it, and now you're taking it back? You're such a girl, Sammy. Make up your," He paused for a beat, wetting his lips, "ah, _mind_." He made a mental note to make up as many puns as he could once his goddamned headache let up… and after sleep—a lot of sleep.

Sam wanted to relax a little, but he had to make sure Dean knew he meant business. "I'm serious, man." And he meant it—totally serious, like serious underlined _twice_ serious, folks. Dean nodded, wondering when Sam wasn't serious, but played along, struggling to just lighten the mood.

"I can tell, dude—you _poked_ me." He spoke a seriously serious tone! And to verify, "in the _shoulder_." In an over dramatizing act, he wiped the back of his hand off his forehead, and puffed up his cheeks; letting out a sharp breath. "I'll stay out, sir, I promise. No trespassing." To end off his act, which had drained all the energy he had left, he saluted Sam, who snorted.

"Dork." He smiled, as if grateful, but Dean heard the whisper of, _I'll take what I can get_.

Dean nodded again, his brows arched in consideration. "Yeah, you are." He looked down pointedly, waiting for Sam to follow, and then gestured the broken record player. "Now, why don't we find this baby a home in a burning trashcan and then shag some ass?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Damn straight."

∞∞∞

It was very likely that hell has frozen over; sprawled out on his stomach, asleep on his bed, was Dean, drooling on the pillow. One arm dangled off the edge, the other under his pillow, with the palm rested against, and his fingers barely curled around, the cool metal handle of a knife. There was crinkling around his eyes, showing his discomfort, whether it was from the headache that, while it had let up some, was still very much there, or the cuts, whose condition showed no improvement, on his chest—or, as it was more probable; from both. Light bruises still stuck out from around his hairline, and his cheeks were feverishly flushed.

On the other side of the room, Sam sat in a chair, more so or less (thanks to caffeine pills) wide-awake, one knee brought up to his chest, his other leg stretched out. He was clad in sweatpants and, his favorite article of clothing, a purple t-shirt with a greyhound on it. With his head rested back, he stared up at the ceiling, unfocused. He drummed his fingers against the arm of the tan chair, not only out of impatience, but also anxiety. His mind was wired, but physically, it felt more like he was enveloped in the fatigue of drunkenness—sluggish, with _that_ buzz… Sam's eyelids closed.

The cracked clock on the wall stopped ticking as the fluorescent light above the mirror in the bathroom flickered, off and on, off and on, off and—still. Even in the parking lot, the headlights of cars flashed uncontrollably for several seconds before settling into the darkness. A breeze picked up, noisily scattering litter and leaves across the wide, paved lot. Sam's eyes fluttered open, but ultimately stayed closed. Stirring slightly in his dreamless sleep, Dean rolled onto his back, one arm still folded back behind his head, his other arm now lying across his abdomen.

"_Urghh_." Dean moaned, his hand rising up to swat at something before he turned onto his side. Sam's head rolled to the side, and he cringed, scratching his nose. A dark chill wrapped around both of them, holding them tight. Dean's headache grew stronger, throbbing harder with each passing second. His eyelids squeezed down tighter, but he hadn't fully woken up. A noise erupted from the back of Sam's throat as a headache of his own began to form in sync with his brother's.

_I told you to put down the gun_.

Dean's grasp on the knife stiffened. Every muscle in his body tensed up. Darkness swirled in his mind, fading into an off-white color, where two beady, pensive red eyes formed, floating there, in his vacant world. For a few seconds, that horrid headache lessened, and it felt less like a wrench was squeezing at his brain.

_You should've listened._ The soft voice spoke flatly, as if it had just lost a bet, a gamble, or a game. His chest began to burn, the pain surpassing the pain created by the headache. Even in his state, he recognized the voice; the flashback greeted him like a slap to the face. He was back in the basement, back when the first had first spoken to him, forcefully entering his mind, using his name like they were old buddies. _Put down the gun, Dean. I've_--- It had said, stopping abruptly. The eyes went from red to black, and… and the rest was history. _You should still listen_.

Back in his seat, Sam groaned, his own pretty little face scrunching up in inexplicable pain that came from nowhere, everywhere, and just plain hurt. His own chest hurt for a second, and he struggled to speak, and to move. His body convulsed once, and then twice, and he slid off the chair, moaning a word that sounded a lot like Dean's name.

_This was your warning. You must— _The voice, the demon, stuttered. The coldness began to fade, although its presence lingered. The painting on the wall that had earlier irked Sam began to vibrate, the dark wavy color disappearing. _Watch the shadows. Beware of the shad—_

And then, just like that, the voice was gone, the brothers released from its painful clutches. Sam groaned, rubbing at his uninjured chest, and called out his brother's name again. Dean moaned back in response, rubbing both his head and his chest. Dean always could pat his head and rub his belly at the same time. He cursed, and then cursed again, confused, and rather pissed off. Sam pushed himself up, waddling over to Dean's bed, where he put a hand on the older male's shoulder.

"Are you—?" But Dean shrugged off his hand.

"'This warning'? Sucked." He said, "sucked" like he'd say the words, "fuckin' hurt."

∞∞∞

Okay, much shorter than I wanted it to be—and this was supposed to be the closing scene for the _last_ chapter. I'm a bit behind. I was also feeling a bit depressed while writing the majority of this, so, yeah, it's been pointed out that there's a lack of humor. I hope it's not too boring! Anyway, big thanks to reviewers, you beautiful people you.


	8. Chapter 8

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"What do you think of the name Samuel Dean? Oh! No, no, how 'bout, Samuel _John_ Dean?" After taking a long, hot shower, Sam emerged from the bathroom, skin brightly flushed, clad in a pair of ripped jeans. He found Dean sitting at the green folding table, hunched over several different papers. Next to a half empty Styrofoam cup of black coffee sat a crumbled up bloody tissue. Sam's inquiring eyes flickered from it, to his brother, and back as he walked over to his bed, picking out a shirt from the duffel bag on his bed. He slipped the said shirt on, later rubbing his palm flat over wrinkles "I'm filling out credit card applications." Dean looked up, the rim of each nostril tinted red. "What?" His tense shoulders rose with the flatly asked question.

Now wasn't the time to argue about fraud. Although something was up when Dean wasn't using the names of his favorite rock and roll musicians and whatnot. "Samuel Dean's fine." Next he grabbed a comb out of the bag, and ran it through his tangled tresses. Excess water dampened the area around his collar. Once he was done, he tossed the comb onto the unkempt bed, and then he stood there, motionless—unsure what to do next. Long fingers tugged uneasily at his damp mane. His upper teeth dug down deep into the flesh of his lower lip. He knew if he sat down, he would end up crossing his legs… and then uncrossing them… crossing them again, and rise, rather, and repeat—or he'd continuously tap his foot, or his fingers. Sam felt Dean's eyes on him, and ducked his head. "_Oh, god_." When did he turn into such a neurotic twit?

"You look like you're about to puke." Yeah, and not to mention that Sam's swirling mess of thoughts were starting to make _him_ nauseous. "How's the head?" Dean tapped his uncapped pen to his temple, leaving a speck of black ink to stain the tanned skin. Sam kept his eyes focused on the beige carpet, and shrugged, working his jaw soundlessly. The pen was set down softly on the table. "Sam, it's rude to ignore someone—"

"How can you just sit there and pretend nothing happened?" The younger brother asked desperately, lifting his wide orbs up to meet Dean's. "How's the head, _Dean_?" He tapped mockingly at his own temple with his index finger. "Wh—what happened, Dean, it felt like I was—" _Channeling you—feeling your pain_. "I don't know, but we have to do something, figure this out." _Help—save you_. "You're—it's getting worse." Or so he thought so, with Dean's cheeks continued to wear that feverish glow, but now his brow and upper lip was slick with perspiration; before his skin had been bone dry and hot to the touch, now it was clammy and still very much warm. However, what concerned Sam the most was the fresh bruising around the old markings. _I won't let this destroy him_. "What are we going to do?"

Dean picked his pen back up, absently twirling it between his index and middle finger. He was quiet for several seconds, stopped twirling the pen, and bit down on the cap of the pen. He pressed the cap against his bottom lip when he halfheartedly offered, though with the ghost of a smirk, "stay away from shadows?" When Sam gaped at him, he tried again, this time trying not to smile. "Okay, let me revise that… 'away from…' _suspicious_ shadows?" How ridiculous of a warning was that? Watch and beware of the shadows? Ooh, how very ominous! Oh, come on now! What the fuck ever. Uh-oh, Sam wasn't happy, and was cursing out his dear older brother in Sammy Land. "'Sides, bro, relax; it was a _demon_ telling us that. A demon. _De_mon. De_mon_. Remember what those are?" He brought his left hand up to his forehead, imitating a waggling horn with the index finger.

… _impossible_! Sam looked like he was about to explode—he was breathing heavily, and totally glared at Dean like he just stole the last fucking Milano cookie. It was a look that was more worn out than a two-dollar whore. "Yes." He hissed, "I remember what _those_ are—and I also remember it was a demon that killed our mother—and my girlfriend." _No, Jess_! "What if—what if—" Sam was suddenly less angry, and looked deflated, as if he were an air balloon and someone just jabbed him with a sharp spork.

"What if… this demon has something to do with mom, with Jess—their killer? _The_ demon?" Dean finished quietly, shaking his head. "I don't think so, Sam, it doesn't really… _fit_. I'd be…" He winced as the words flew out of his mouth, "stuck to the ceiling, on fire—" –_and burn—and burn_. "—Not reading your stupid mind, or anyone else's."

"'Has something to do with.'" Sam repeated, his voice so loud it seemed to echo off the walls. "Not _the_." But it could be. "We've never faced a demon like this before…" _Never had a demon's blood mix with yours_.

Dean did not want to hear this right now. He could practically smell the presence of Jessica stirring in Sam's thoughts. "Coincidence?" Denial, yeah—denial worked. It was how most of their cases would begin, thinking what whatever was going on, it couldn't be supernatural, just couldn't—there were other explanations, just had to be! Bullshit.

The brunette laughed sarcastically. _We've been through this before_. "Is anything ever a coincidence in our lives? Look me in the eye and say all this shit is just going to pass, that nothing's going to come from it." _He won't_. Dean chewed on that cap like it was a piece of beef jerky. After a few seconds, he dropped the abused pen, which screamed for more, letting it roll off the table, and pushed back in the chair, standing up. _He can't_.

"Okay." Dean stated simply, but it was much more than that. He took his cell phone out from his pocket, and then grabbed Sam's hand. He pressed the phone into his palm, wrapping his hand around his with a squeeze until Sam held it tightly in his own grasp. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "If you think this does have to do with the demon, then call dad." The demon was John's obsession, his will to live, to hunt. Dean had a feeling that this hunt was nothing more than bad luck, or else John's ears would already be ringing. Sam tried to push the cell phone back into his brother's hand, protesting physically, mentally, and verbally.

"Dean—"

"_Tell him_ about your visions—"

"God, Dean—"

"_Tell him_ about my sudden case of—" Between their hands, the cell phone went off, vibrating in rhythm with each ring. Sam's eyes locked on Dean's, waiting for the next move. "You take it—I need to go clean out my ears." Sam huffed, clicking the accept button on the phone as Dean walked into the bathroom, crankily mumbling something about jabbing q-tips up his ears. He brought the phone up to his ear, still carefully watching his brother.

"Hell—"

"What—_did_—you—_do_—to—_my_—house?"

Ah, guess who?

_Ron_.

Oh, snap. In the bathroom, now with a q-tip sticking from his ear, Dean cursed like a hybrid of a sailor and a trucker.

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"You missed the turn." As usual, Sam sat in the passenger's seat, preoccupied with checking his e-mail on his cell phone doohickey. Some pieces of electronic mail were from his friends. Others asked him if there was much to be desired about the size of his penis. He flicked a glance at Dean after he repeated himself and earned silence in return. "Dude, you missed the—" He paused abruptly, setting down his phone on the dashboard. "You don't plan on going to Ron's." It wasn't a question, but Dean shrugged a shoulder, and nodded his head as if he were considering it.

"Maybe." The combination of a dull, consistent headache, and the frustration of being frustrated fused together, so, all in all, Dean wasn't in the mood to deal with a loud mouthed jackass at the moment, or any moments in the near future. "Food first, Sparky second." He reasoned, his eyes skimming for a crowded diner, or restaurant—just a crowded _something_. He'd even be so kind to pull into a crowded pub, or strip club. "I _hate_ to banter on an empty stomach." He verified before Sam had a chance to ask.

"Yeah, right." Sam wasn't as nearly hungry as he was tired, so a pot of coffee sounded oh so lovely right about now. He leaned more so against the side of the door, and tucked hair behind his ears. "What do you think he's more pissed about—the hole in the wall, or his smashed collection of cutesy glass animals?" Because Sam and Dean were totally the definition of manliness, they could poke and tease at prissy Ron all they wanted. "We already know he didn't take the death of his curtains too well."

"Yeah." Dean grunted, pulling into the congested lot of a very quaint looking diner. "_We_." Sam hadn't been the one subjected to the torture of hearing a grown man whine about his curtains, and how he went through so much trouble to find the perfect shade to patch the walls. Dean had been more than happy to announce the damage done to the walls in the living room, much to Ron's dismay. "Order a steak or something—something that takes a while to cook."

"Why, sure, I'll order _three_ steaks while I'm at it."

"Dude, watch it. I'm just telling you not to get a dainty little salad, a small cup of soup, three crackers, and a glass of water." Sam opened his mouth to object, but Dean, who just parked the car, looked over at him, brows raised appraisingly. "And don't forget dessert."

"Dean, it's _lunch_ time." Before Dean could tell him to chew his food forty-six times before swallowing, Sam hurried out of the car, rolling his eyes so quickly and hard he nearly got dizzy. Also, since he did have a conscience, an overworking one at that, he mentioned that he told Ron they'd be there shortly. Dean met him at the trunk and they walked towards the diner shoulder to shoulder.

"Car trouble." Sam rolled his eyes again, this time at the speed limit.

"Whatever." The diner wasn't as crowded as made to believe. There were a few empty tables, and Dean picked out the one closest to the air conditioner, which sounded like it had better days.

"Order whatever—" And by, "whatever," he meant, "whatever I tell you to," "you want, princess—this meal's on Stephen Stills." Ah, so kind of Mr. Stills.

"Just remember this isn't a five course meal." Sam mumbled, offering the young waitress a friendly smile when she sauntered over, handing them two menus. She wore an apron, and kept a pencil through the back of her tightly wrapped bun of hair. Her ears turned red as she asked them what they'd have to drink. Right off the bat Sam ordered coffee—"definitely not decaf," and ordered for Dean ("same for him, black"), because, well, he did.

"Thanks, mom."

"You're welcome, sweetie." Neither smiled at their exchange of sarcastic words.

"If you even _try_ to cut up my meat, I'll stab you with my fork." To let him know he was very much serious, he picked up the respective piece of silverware, frowning at all the spots on it. He exhaled deeply on it a few times before wiping it off on his shirt. Sam wrinkled his nose up, but let it go.

"I wouldn't expect anything less." Ironically, it was just a little more than a decade and a half ago when Sam tried to convince Dean he didn't need to have his meat cut up. "I'm not a baby." He had pouted, and John, who never really noticed before, snapped at Dean with, "He's not a baby." Enough was said, and Dean stopped doing it.

"You always cut your own slices too big." Dean's voice broke through Sam's thoughts, and he looked up from the menu in surprise. "Still do—you may have a huge mouth, but your throat—"

"What did I tell you?"

"Wipe before I flush?"

"_Dean_!" He hissed as the waitress came back, carefully setting down the two mugs of steaming coffee. She smiled awkwardly, and mumbled something about being right back to take their orders as she scrambled off. "I told you not to… not to…" _Go into my mind? Read my thoughts?_ What exactly _was_ Dean doing? It seemed a little more than just a case of telepathy.

"Not to go all Xavier on your ass—er, mind? I don't know, dude, just don't…"

"Think?" Sam clenched his jaw, and because he was obviously pissed off, Dean got pissed off. He closed the menu that he had been looking at, and stared his brother down.

"I can't control this, Sam, all right? Just like you can't control your visions." In other words, he was saying, "don't be a fucking hypocrite about this."

"Then I guess you know how I feel when you bitch about my visions." He may have actually said, "complain," but Dean was sure he heard, "bitch."

"This is different from—"

"Is it?" Sam challenged, his brow arched, head slightly tilted. He now shut, without really looking at, his menu, carelessly tossing it on top of Dean's discarded one. Dean ignored him, but sighed, and greedily reached for his sweet, sweet coffee. He brought the mug close to his nose, deeply inhaling the scent. On the other side of the table, Sam mirrored him, but was the first to take a sip. "_Ugh_!" He sputtered, remembering it was Dean who liked his coffee black, not him.

"Need some cream and sugar, Frances?"

Several different snappy retorts ran through his mind, but he ended up nodding his head, smiling widely. "Actually… yeah."

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"You put a monstrous hole in the wall! Curtains were wrongfully scorched, wallpaper was diced, my priceless glass sculptures collection? Smashed into unrecognizable pieces! Furniture messily rearranged, my stashes of candy? Stolen!" Ron, with his mouth wide open, had thrown his arms up in the air.

"Damn ol' Sam and his sweet tooth." Dean whistled, elbowing his little brother in the ribs. "He refuses to believe he has a problem." For once, he allowed himself to mentally absorb Sam's insults, unable to keep from smirking. That was his boy all right. Still standing on the porch, he asked loudly, while wagging his brows, as a jogger passed, "so, uh, did we not _fulfill_ our services, sir?"

"Are you getting surly with me?" Ron's eye twitched, and Sam sighed, reminded of how he, being the rebellious one, acted with their father once upon a time ago.

Dean, now with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, rocked back on his heels. "Surely not." He answered, purposely mispronouncing the word "surely," with a faux innocent smirk quirked on his lips. "But," he shot back in a smug business-like way, "you didn't answer my question. Did we, or did we not, fix your weeping Casper problem?"

The older man blinked, confused, but finally nodded, albeit stubbornly, "I haven't had any problems… _yet_. Besides, what was it that you two did exactly?" He looked from one brother to the other, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. At the same time, Dean cracked out, "a true hunter never reveals his techniques," and Sam blurted out truthfully, "we burned a phonograph." Ron ignored the blonde, and cocked a brow up at Sam. … _hear him correctly_. "You burned a _what_?" … _Couldn't have_…

Dean pulled on his earlobe, distracted, his brow deeply furrowed, so Sam hesitantly continued. "Phonograph. It was hidden behind a wall—we think the ghost's spirit was attached to it." He clapped a hand to Dean's shoulder; the common gesture came with a concerned echo of, _you okay, man_? In response, Dean shrugged until the hand dropped. Sam went on, squinting down at the older man, whose face had gone pale. "You… haven't heard the music? It was playing regularly…"

"After you left." Dean observed, and another headache, this time located behind his eyeballs, began to form as he tried to read Ron's mind. He knew something was up, there was something being kept from them, but he wasn't able to catch much. He suddenly felt warmer—almost hot, and even a little dizzy, but he was able to overcome it, and he hadn't even noticed when Sam's hand found its way back to his shoulder. "You a fan of Sinatra, Ron?"

"Are you _interrogating_ me?" He uttered 'interrogating' as if it were the worse they could possibly do, but he knew better than that—or, at least, he _should_, unless he was worried about something; _unless_ he was letting his own level of increased anxiety cloud his judgment, distract him. Ron calmed himself down, forcing a smile. "What are you up to, _boys_?" There was this dark, distrustful glimmer in his eyes. _Unnecessary meddling, should've known_.

Meddling? Dean was forced to stifle a chuckle, and tightly compressed his lips, trying not to smile. He instantly thought Scooby-Doo, and ripping a mask off Ron's head. He easily heard Ron's anguished cry of, "And I would've gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for you meddling Winchesters!" Okay, and the mental image of that? It made him laugh, sorry. Ron shot him a look that easily read off, "did I say somethin' funny?"

Sam squeezed his brother's shoulder. "We're not up to anything, Ron. You wanted the ghost out of your house, and we did it."

"Yeah, at the cost of nearly wrecking my house." He pointed behind his shoulder at his house, which looked undamaged from the outside.

"Sorry about that. Next time we'll ask the ghost to take it outside." Sam had opened his mouth to professionally answer, but Dean's retort cut him off before he made a sound. "Although, hey, better yet, maybe next time, you shouldn't keep stuff from us."

_What does he know_? Ron's eyes widened, but he remained nearly expressionless. The silence betrayed him, but even without being able to read his mind, Sam knew something was up. His eyes darted from the elder man to his brother, who smirked slyly.

"It's getting stronger." Dean stated to Sam without taking his eyes off of Ron. The way he was staring so intently at Ron was familiar to the younger brother. _That's how he's been looking at me_. He thought, hand falling from Dean's shoulder. _Like he's looking for something_. "Not lookin'."

"Hearing." Sam said flatly, the realization making him bitter, though he wouldn't admit it. It wasn't a fair advantage, he figured. Big deal, he could see the future, but Dean? He could _read minds_. He could _see_ into people's _heads_, which was something _Sam_ had always wanted to do to _Dean_. "Man."

"What in the hell is going on here?" Not only was Ron looking suspicious, but he was also starting to appear way paranoid. His mind was racing. Tension was building up, thick and heavy, and he hated the way Dean stared at him, the way Sam just stood there, brooding while waiting so patiently for something, the damned way Dean blinked, wetted his lips, and finally, the way his face softened as if he just heard some bad news.

"You were Betty's fiancé."

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This story was put on the back burner while I finished a story (which I recently put up), and now I just want to finish it. I don't know when that will be, but I will. (Also, this chapter was written before I put it on hiatus; it's not supposed to end where it does, but I can't remember how I wanted to end it, so opps.)


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